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A Room with 


a View 


BOOKS BY E.°M. FORSTER 


WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD 
HOWARDS END 

THE LONGEST JOURNEY 

A ROOM WITH A VIEW 


In Preparation 
THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS 


NEW YORK: ALFRED:A:+KNOPE 


A oom with a 
View 


By Ek. M. Forster 





New York 
Alfred: A + Knopf 
1923 


FIRST PUBLISHED ELSEWHERE 


PUBLISHED, 1923, By 
ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc. 


Set up and printed by the Vaii-Ballou Oo., Binghamton, N. Y. 
Paper furnished by W. F. Htherington & Co., New York. 
Bound by the H. Wolff Estate, New York. 


MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


To 
H, O. M. 


sete 
Sree 
fe Ge 


NT 





VIL. 


Contents 


Part One 
The Bertolini 
In Santa Croce with No Baedeker 
Music, Violets, and the Letter “S” 
Fourth Chapter 
Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing 


The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend 
Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. 
George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, 
Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy 
Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to 
See a View; Italians Drive Them 


They Return 


Part Two 
Medieval 
Lucy as a Work of Art 
Cecil as a Humourist 
In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat 
Twelfth Chapter 
How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So ‘Tire- 


some 


How Lucy Faced the External Situation 
Bravely 


13 
30 
52 
67 
a7 


95 
III 


129 
150 
170 
183 
IQI 


205 


217 


Contents 





XV. 
XVI. 
XVII. 
XVIII. 


XIX. 
XX, 


The Disaster Within 
Lying to George 
Lying to Cecil 


Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, 
Freddy, and the Servants 


Lying to Mr. Emerson 
The End of the Middle Ages 


226 
246 
258 


267 
289 
312 


Part One 





Chapter I: The Bertolini 


“4b HE Signora had no business to do it,’ 
said Miss Bartlett, ‘“‘no business at all. 
She promised us south rooms with a view 
close together, instead of which here are north 
rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way 
apart. Oh, Lucy!” 

‘And a Cockney, besides!’ said Lucy, who 
had been further saddened by the Signora’s un- 
expected accent. “It might be London.” She 
looked at the two rows of English people who were 
sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of 
water and red bottles of wine that ran between 
the English people; at the portraits of the late 
Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung be- 
hind the English people, heavily framed; at the 
notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert 
Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other deco- 
ration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, 
too, that we might be in London? I can hardly 
believe that all kinds of other things are just out- 
side. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.” 

‘‘This meat has surely been used for soup,” said 
Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. 

“T want so to see the Arno. The rooms the 


—1I3- 


A Room with a View 


Signora promised us in her letter would have looked 
over the Arno. The Signora had no business to 
do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!” 

‘‘Any nook does for me,”’ Miss Bartlett continued; 
‘but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a 
view.” 

Lucy felt that she had been selfish. ‘Charlotte, 
you mustn’t spoil me: of course, you must look 
over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first 
vacant room in the front—” 

“You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part 
of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s 
mother—a piece of generosity to which she made 
many a tactful allusion. 

‘‘No, no. ‘You must have it.” 

“T insist on it. Your mother would never for- 
give me, Lucy.” 

‘She would never forgive me.” 

The ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the 
sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were 
tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they 
wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged 
glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred 
people whom one does meet abroad—leant for- 
ward over the table and actually intruded into their 
argument. He said: 

“T have a view, I have a view.” 

Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pen- 
sion people looked them over for a day or two be- 
fore speaking, and often did not find out that they 


The Bertolini 


would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the 
intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at 
him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a 
fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was some- 
thing childish in those eyes, though it was not the 
childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss 
Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance 
passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. 
He was probably trying to become acquainted with 
them before they got into the swim. So she assumed 
a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then 
said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a 
view is!” 

“This is my son,”’ said the ad man; one name’s 
George. He has a view too.’ 

“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who 
was about to speak. 

‘What I mean,” he continued, ‘‘is that you can 
have our rooms, and we'll have yours. We'll 
change.” 

The.better class of tourist was shocked at this, 
and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bart- 
lett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, 
and said: 

“Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the 
question.”’ 

“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the 
table. 

“Because it is mite out of the question, thank 


you. 9 





oe) 


A Room with a View 


‘You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. 

Her cousin again repressed her. 

“But why?” he persisted. “‘Women like look- 
ing at a view; men don’t.”” And he thumped with 
his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son, 
saying, ‘George, persuade them!” 

“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” 
said the son. ‘‘There’s nothing else to say.” 

He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but 
his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, 
was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for 
what is known as ‘‘quite a scene,’ and she had an 
odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists 
spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, 
not with rooms and views, but with—well, with 
something quite different, whose existence she had 
not realized before. Now the old man attacked 
Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she 
not change? What possible objection had she? 
They would clear out in half an hour. 

Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of 
conversation, was powerless in the presence of bru- 
tality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. 
Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked 
around as much as to say, “‘Are you all like this?” 
And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up 
the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the 
chairs, looked back, clearly indicating ‘We are not; 
we are genteel.” 

‘‘Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and be- 

at 6 


The Bertolini 


gan to toy again with the meat that she had once cen- 
sured. 

Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd peo- 
ple opposite. 

“at your dinner, dear. This Boneien is a failure. 
To-morrow we will make a change.”’ 

Hardly had she announced this fell decision when 
she reversed it. ‘The curtains at the end of the room 
parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attrac- 
tive, who hurried forward to take his place at the 
table, cheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, 
who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to 
her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr. 
Beebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, 
we must stop now, however bad the rooms are. 
Oh!” 

Miss Bartlett said, with more restraint: 

‘How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you 
have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honey- 
church, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you 
helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold 
Faster.” 

The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holi- 
day, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as 
they remembered him. But he came forward pleas- 
antly enough and accepted the chair into which he 
was beckoned by Lucy. 

‘I am so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was 
in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have 
been gad to see the waiter if her cousin had per- 


A Room with a View 





mitted it. ‘Just fancy how small the world is. 
Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny.”’ 

‘Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer 
Street,’ said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, “and 
she happened to tell me in the course of conversa- 
tion that you have just accepted the living—”’ 

“Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She 
didn’t know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; 
but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe 
{Gen a 

“Quite right,” said the clergyman. ‘I move into 
the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am 
lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbour- 
hood.” 

“Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is 
Windy Corner.” 

Mr. Beebe bowed. evi 

‘There is mothe and me generally Sand my 
brother, though it’s not often we get him to ch— 
The church is rather far off, I mean.”’ 

“Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.” 

“T am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.” 

He preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he 
remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who 
probably remembered his sermons. He asked the 
girl whether she knew Florence well, and was in- 
formed at some length that she had never been there 
before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and 
he was first in the field. 

‘Don’t neglect the country round,” his advice con- 

watt Roe 


The Bertolini 


cluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to 
Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of 
that sort.” 

“No!” cried a voice from the top of the table. 
“Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine after- 
noon your ladies must go to Prato.” 

‘That lady looks so clever,’ whispered Miss Bart- 
lett to her cousin. “‘We are in luck.” 

And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information 
burst on them. People told them what to see, when 
to see it, how to stop the electric trams, how to get 
rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum 
blotter, how much the place would grow upon them. 
The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusi- 
astically, that they would do. Whichever way they 
looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. 
And abc all rose the voice of the clever lady, cry- 
ing: ~. cato!.. They must Yo to Prato. That 
place is too sweetly squalid*for words. I love it; 
I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, 
as you know.” 

The young man named George glanced at the 
clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. 
Obviously he and his father did not do. Lucy, in 
the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. 
It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should 
be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, 
she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nerv- 
ous little bow. 

The father did not see it; the son acknowledged 





A Room with a View 


it, not by another bow, but by raising his eyebrows 
and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across some- 
thing. 

She hastened after her cousin, who had already 
disappeared through the curtains—curtains which 
smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more 
than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable 
Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and sup- 
ported by ’Enery, her little boy, and Victorier, her 
daughter. It made a curious little scene, this 
attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and 
geniality of the South. And even more curious 
was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the 
solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. 
Was this really Italy? 

Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly 
stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the 
contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr. 
Beebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head 
drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as 
though she were demolishing some invisible ob- 
stacle. ‘“‘We are most grateful to you,” she was 
saying. ‘The first evening means so much. When 
you arrived we were in for a peculiarly mauvais 
quart d’heure.” 

He expressed his regret. 

‘Do you, by any chance, know the name of an 
old man who sat opposite us at dinner?” 

‘‘Emerson.”’ 

“Ts he a friend of yours?” 


The Bertolini 


“We are friendly—as one is in pensions.”’ 

“Then I will say no more.” 

He pressed her very slightly, and she said more. 

“I am, as it were,” she concluded, ‘‘the chaperon 
of my young cousin, Lucy, and it would be a serious 
thing if I put her under an obligation to people of 
whom we know nothing. His manner was some- 
what unfortunate. I hope I acted for the best.” 

“You acted very naturally,” said he. He seemed 
thoughtful, and after a few moments added: “All 
the same, I don’t think much harm would have come 
of accepting.” 

“No harm, of course. But we could not be under 
an obligation.” 

‘He is rather a peculiar man.”’ Again he hesi- 
tated, and then said gently: “I think he would not 
take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you 
to show gratitude. He has the merit—if it is one 
—of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms 
he does not value, and he thinks you would value 
them. He no more thought of putting you under 
an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is 
so difficult—at least, I find it diffiicult—to under- 
stand people who speak the truth.” 

Lucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that 
he was nice; I do so always hope that people will 
be nice.” 

“T think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from 
him on almost every point of any importance, and 
so, I expect—I may say I hope—you will differ. 

—2I- | 


A Room with a View 


But his is a type one disagrees with rather than 
deplores. When he first came here he not unnat- 
urally put people’s backs up. He has no tact and 
no manners—I don’t mean by that that he has bad 
manners—and he will not keep his opinions to him- 
self. We nearly complained about him to our 
depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we 
thought better of it.” 

‘‘Am I to conclude,” said Miss Bartlett, “that 
he is a Socialist?” 

Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not 
without a slight twitching of the lips. 

‘‘And presumably he has brought up his son to 
be a Socialist, too?” 

‘“T hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to 
talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and IJ think 
he has brains. Of course, he has all his father’s 
mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, 
may be a Socialist.” 

‘Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. ‘So 
you think I ought to have accepted their offer? 
You feel I have been narrow-minded and _sus- 
picious ?” 

“Not at all,” he answered; “I never suggested 
that.” 

“But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for 
my apparent rudeness?” 

He replied, with some irritation, that it would 
be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to 
go to the smoking-room. 


The Bertolini 


“Was I a bore?” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as 
he had disappeared. ‘Why didn’t you talk, Lucy? 
He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope 
I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would 
have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time.” 

“He is nice,’ exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I 
remember. He seems to see good in every one. 
No one would take him for a clergyman.” 

“My dear Lucia—” 

‘Well, you know what I mean. And you know 
how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs 
just like an ordinary man.” 

“Funny girl! How you do remind me of your 
mother. I wonder if she will approve of ‘Mr. 
Beebe.” 

“I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.” 

“T think every one at Windy Corner will ap- 
prove; it is the fashionable world. I am used to 
Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly be- 
hind the times.” 

“Yes,” said Lucy despondently. 

There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but 
whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. 
Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy 
Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, 
she could not determine. She tried to locate it, 
but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedu- 
lously denied disapproving of any one, and added: 
“T am afraid you are finding me a very depressing 
companion.” 





A Room with a View 


And the girl again thought: “I must have been 
selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is 
so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.” 

Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for 
some time had been smiling very benignly, now 
approached and asked if she might be allowed to 
sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, 
she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge 
it had been to come there, the gratifying success 
of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s 
health, the necessity of closing the bed-room win- 
dows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the 
water-bottles in the morning. She handled her sub- 
jects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more wor- 
thy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs 
and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempest- 
uously at the other end of the room. It was a 
real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening 
of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bed- 
room something that is one worse than a flea, 
though one better than something else. 

“But here you are as safe as in England. 
Signora Bertolini is so English.” 

“Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We 
dread going to bed.” 

‘‘Ah, then you look into the court.” She sighed. 
“Tf only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were 
so sorry for you at dinner.” 

‘“T think he was meaning to be kind.” © 

“Undoubtedly he was,” said Miss Bartlett. 


The Bertolini 


“Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my sus- 
picious nature. Of course, I was holding back on 
my cousin’s account.” 

“Of course,” said the little old lady; and they 
murmured that one could not be too careful with 
a young girl. 

Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help 
feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her 
at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it. 

‘About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, 
he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that 
there are people who do things which are most 
indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful ?” 

“Beautiful?” said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the 
word. ‘Are not beauty and delicacy the same?” 

‘So one would have thought,” said the other 
helplessly. “‘But things are so difficult, I some- 
times think.” 

She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. 
Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant. 

“Miss Bartlett,” he cried, “it’s all right about 
the rooms. I’m so glad. Mr. Emerson was talk- 
ing about it in the smoking-room, and knowing 
what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer 
again. He has let me come and ask you. He 
would be so pleased.” 

“Oh, Charlotte,’ cried Lucy to her cousin, “we 
must have the rooms now. The old man is just 
_as nice and kind as he can be.” 

Miss Bartlett was silent. 





A Room with a View 





“TI fear,” said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, ‘‘that I 
have been officious. I must apologize for my in- 
terference.”’ 

Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till 
then did Miss Bartlett reply: “My own wishes, 
dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparision with 
yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you 
doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only 
here through your kindness. If you wish me to 
turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will 
do it. Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly tell 
Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then 
conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him 
personally?” 

She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard 
all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs 
and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly 
cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with 
her message. 

“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in 
this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from 
you. Grant me that, at all events.” 

Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously: 

‘Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son 
instead.” 

The young man gazed down on the three ladies, 
who felt seated on the floor, so low were their 
chairs. 

“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you 
cannot thank him personally. But any message 


—26— 


The Bertolini 


given by you to me will be given by me to him as 
soon as he comes out.” 

Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her 
barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young 
Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the de- 
light of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of 
Lucy. 

“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon 
as he had gone. ‘How angry he is with his father 
about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep 
polite.” 

“In half an hour or so your rooms will be 
ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather 
thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to 
his own rooms, to write up his philosophic di- 
ary. 

“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and 
shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered 
the apartment. ‘“‘Gentlemen sometimes do not 
realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bart- 
lett seemed to understand and a conversation de- 
veloped, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly 
realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing 
either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baed- 
eker’s Handbook to Northern Italy, she committed 
to memory the most important dates of Florentine 
History. For she was determined to enjoy her- 
self on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept 
profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose 
with a sigh, and said: 





A Room with a View 


“T think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do 
not stir. I will superintend the move.” 

‘low you do do everything,” said Lucy. 

‘Naturally, dear. It is my affair.” 

‘But I would like to help you.” 

“No, dear.2 

Charlotte’s energy! And her _ unselfishness! 
She had been thus all her life, but really, on this 
Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy 
felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a 
rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether 
the acceptance might not have been less delicate 
and more beautiful. At all events, she entered 
her own room without any feeling of joy. 

“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, ‘why 
it is that I have taken the largest room. Natur- 
ally, of course, I should have given it to you; but I 
happen to know that it belongs to the young man, 
and I was sure your mother would not like it.” 

Lucy was bewildered. 

“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable 
you should be under an obligation to his father 
than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my 
small way, and I know where things lead to. How- 
ever, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they 
will not presume on this.”’ 

‘Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, 
but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected 
issues. 

Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in 

—28— 


The Bertolini 


a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. 
It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she 
reached her own room she opened the window and 
breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind 
old man who had enabled her to see the lights 
dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Min- 
iato, and the foot-hills of the Apennines, black 
against the rising moon. 

Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window- 
shutters and locked the door, and then made a 
tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards 
led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret 
entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up 
over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was 
scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Noth- 
ing more. 

“What does it mean?” she thought, and she 
examined it carefully by the light of a candle. 
Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing, 
obnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized 
with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately re- 
membered that she had no right to do so, since 
it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. 
So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between 
two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for 
him. ‘Then she completed her inspection of the 
room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and 
went to bed. 





—29— 


Chapter II: In Santa Croce with No 
Baedeker 


T was pleasant to wake up in Florencefas open 
| the eyes upon a bright bare room, with a floor 
of red tiles which look clean though they 
are not; with a painted ceiling whereon pink grif- 
fins and blue amorini sport in a forest of yellow 
violins and bassoons. It was ,seasant, too, to 
fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in un- 
familiar fastenings, to lean out into sunshine with 
beautiful hills and trees and marble churches oppo- 
site, and close below, the Arno, gurgling against 
the embankment of the road. 

Over the river men were at work with spades 
and sieves on the sandy foreshore, and on the river 
was a boat, also diligently employed for some mys- 
terious end. An electric tram came rushing under- 
neath the window. No one was inside it, except 
one tourist; but its platforms were overflowing with 
Italians, who preferred to stand. Children tried 
to hang on behind, and the conductor, with no mal- 
ice, spat in their faces to make them let go. Then 
soldiers appeared—good-looking, undersized men 
—wearing each a knapsack covered with mangy fur, 
and a great-coat which had been cut for some larger 
soldier. Beside them walked officers, looking fool- 


In Santa Croce with No Baedeker 





ish and fierce, and before them went little boys, 
turning somersaults in time with the band. The 
tramcar became entangled in their ranks, and 
moved on painfully, like a caterpillar in a swarm 
of ants. One of the little boys fell down, and some 
white bullocks came out of an archway. Indeed, 
if it '.1 not been for the good advice of an old 
man who was selling button-hooks, the road might 
never have got clear. 

Over such trivialities as these many a valuable 
hour may slip away, and the traveller who has 
gone to Italy to‘atuey the tactile values of Giotto, 
or the corruption of the Papacy, may return re- 
membering nothing but the blue sky and the men 
and women who live under it. So it was as well 
that Miss Bartlett should tap and come in, and 
having commented on Lucy’s leaving the door 
unlocked, and on her leaning out of the window 
before she was fully dressed, should urge her to 
hasten herself, or the best of the day would be 
gone. By the time Lucy was ready her cousin had 
done her breakfast, and was listening to the clever 
lady among the crumbs. 

A conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar 
lines. Miss Bartlett was, after all, a wee bit tired, 
and thought they had better spend the morning 
settling in; unless Lucy would at all like to go out? 
Lucy would rather like to go out, as it was her 
first day in Florence, but, of course, she could go 
alone. Miss Bartlett could not allow this. Of 


A Room with a View 


course she would accompany Lucy everywhere. Oh, 
certainly not; Lucy would stop with her cousin. 
Oh, no! that would never do. Oh, yes! 

At this point the clever lady broke in. 

“If it is Mrs. Grundy who is troubling you, | 
do assure you that you can neglect the good person. 
Being English, Miss Honeychurch will be perfectly 
safe. Italians understand. A dear friend of mine, 
Contessa Baroncelli, has two daughters, and when 
she cannot send a maid to school with them, she 
lets them go in sailor-hats instead. Every one 
takes them for English, you see, especially if their 
hair is strained tightly behind.” 

Miss Bartlett was unconvinced by the safety of 
Contessa Baroncelli’s daughters. She was deter- 
mined to take Lucy herself, her head not being so 
very bad. ‘The clever lady then said that she was 
going to spend a long morning in Santa Croce, and 
if Lucy would come too, she would be delighted. 

“T will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss 
Honeychurch, and if you bring me luck, we shall 
have an adventure.” 

Lucy said that this was most kind, and at once 
opened the Baedeker, to see where Santa Croce 
was. 3 

‘Tut, tut! Miss Lucy! I hope we shall soon 
emancipate you from Baedeker. He does but 
touch the surface of things. As to the true Italy 
—he does not even dream of it. The true Italy 
is only to be found by patient observation.” 


In Santa Croce with No Baedeker 


This sounded very interesting, and- Lucy hurried 
over her breakfast, and started with her new friend 
in high spirits. Italy was coming at last. The 
Cockney Signora and her works had vanished like 
a bad dream. 

Miss Lavish—for that was the clever lady’s 
name—turned to the right along the sunny Lung’ 
Arno. How delightfully warm! But a wind down 
the side streets cut like a knife, didn’t it? Ponte 
alle Grazie—particularly interesting, mentioned by 
Dante. San Miniato—beautiful as well as inter- 
esting; the crucifix that kissed a murderer—Miss 
Honeychurch would remember the story. The men 
on the river were fishing. (Untrue; but then, so 
is most information.) Then Miss Lavish darted 
under the archway of the white bullocks, and she 
stopped, and she cried: 

‘A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, 
let me teach you, has its own smell.” 

“Is it a very nice smell?” said Lucy, who had 
inherited from her mother a distaste to dirt. 

“One doesn’t come to Italy for niceness,” was 
the retort; “one comes for life. Buon giorno! 
Buon giorno!” bowing right and left. ‘Look at 
that adorable wine-cart! How the driver stares 
at us, dear, simple soul!” 

So Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of 
the city of Florence, short, fidgety, and playful as 
a kitten, though without a kitten’s grace. It was 
a treat for the girl to be with any one so clever 


A Room with a View 





and so cheerful; and a blue military cloak, such as 
an Italian officer wears, only increased the sense of 
festivity. 

“Buon giorno! Take the word of an old wo- 
man, Miss Lucy: you will never repent of a little 
civility to your inferiors. That is the true democ- 
racy. ThoughI ama real Radical as well. ‘There, 
now you’re shocked.” 

‘Indeed, I’m not!’ exclaimed Lucy. “We are 
Radicals, too, out and out. My father always 
voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful 
about Ireland.” 

‘‘T see, I see. And now you have gone over to 
the enemy.” 

“Oh, please—! If my father was alive, I am 
sure he would vote Radical again now that Ireland 
is all right. And as it is, the glass over our front- 
door was broken last election, and Freddy is sure 
it was the Tories; but mother says nonsense, a 
tramp.” 

“Shameful! A manufacturing district, I sup- 
pose?” 

‘‘No—in the Surrey hills. About five miles from 
Dorking, looking over the Weald.” 

Miss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened 
her trot. 

‘What a delightful part; I know it so well. It 
is full of the very nicest people. Do you know Sir 
Harry Otway—a Radical if ever there was?” 

‘Very well indeed.” 


ar 


In Santa Croce with No Baedeker 


‘And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?” 

‘Why, she rents a field of us! How funny!” 

Miss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, 
and murmured: 

“Oh, you have property in Surrey?” 

“Hardly any,” said Lucy, fearful of being 
thought a snob. “Only thirty acres—yjust the gar- 
den, all downhill, and some fields.” 

Miss Lavish was not disgusted, and said it was 
just the size of her aunt’s Suffolk estate. Italy 
receded. ‘They tried to remember the last name 
of Lady Louisa some one, who had taken a house 
near Summer Street the other year, but she had 
not liked it, which was odd of her. And just as 
Miss Lavish had got the name, she broke off and 
exclaimed: 

“Bless us! Bless us and save us! We've lost 
the way.” 

Certainly they had seemed a long time in reaching 
Santa Croce, the tower of which had been plainly 
visible from the landing window. But Miss Lavish 
had said so much about knowing her Florence by 
heart, that Lucy had followed her with no mis- 
givings. 

“Tost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our 
political diatribes we have taken a wrong turning. 
How those horrid Conservatives would jeer at us! 
What are we to do? ‘Two lone females in an 
unknown town. Now, this is what J call an ad- 
venture.” 


A Room with a View 





Lucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested, 
as a possible solution, that they should ask the way 
there. 

“Oh, but that is the word of a craven! And 
no, you are not, not, not to look at your Baedeker. 
Give it to me; I shan’t let you carry it. We will 
simply drift.” 

Accordingly they drifted through a series of 
those grey-brown streets, neither commodious nor 
picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the city 
abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent 
of Lady Louisa, and became discontented herself. 
For one ravishing moment Italy appeared. 
She stood in the Square of the Annunziata and 
saw in the living terra-cotta those divine babies 
whom no cheap reproduction can ever stale. There 
they stood, with their shining limbs bursting from 
the garments of charity, and their strong white arms 
extended against circlets of heaven. Lucy thought 
she had never seen anything more beautiful; but 
Miss Lavish, with a shriek of dismay, dragged her 
forward, declaring that they were out of their path 
now by at least a mile. 

The hour was approaching at which the continen- 
tal breakfast begins, or rather ceases, to tell, and the 
ladies bought some hot chestnut paste out of a 
little shop, because it looked so typical. It tasted 
partly of the paper in which it was wrapped, partly 
of hair oil, partly of the great unknown. But it 
gave them strength to drift into another Piazza, 


-3 6— 


In Santa Croce with No Baedeker 


large and dusty, on the farther side of which rose a 
black-and-white facade of surpassing ugliness. Miss 
Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It was Santa 
Croce. The adventure was over. 

“Stop a minute; let those two people go on, or 
I shall have to speak to them. I do detest con- 
ventional intercourse. Nasty! they are going into 
the church, too. Oh, the Britisher abroad!” 

“We sat opposite them at dinner last night. 
They have given us their rooms. They were so 
very kind.” 

“Look at their figures!” laughed Miss Lavish. 
“They walk through my Italy like a pair of cows. 
It’s very naughty of me, but I would like to set an ex- 
amination paper at Dover, and turn back every 
tourist who couldn’t pass it.” 

‘What would you ask us?’ 

Miss Lavish laid her hand pleasantly on Lucy’s 
arm, as if to suggest that she, at all events, would 
get full marks. In this exalted mood they reached 
the steps of the great church, and were about to 
enter it when Miss Lavish stopped, squeaked, flung 
up her arms, and cried: 

‘There goes my local-colour box! I must have 
a word with him!” 

And in a moment she was away over the Piazza, 
her military cloak flapping in the wind; nor did she 
slacken speed till she caught up an old man with 
white whiskers, and nipped him playfully upon the 
arm. 


A Room with a View 


Lucy waited for nearly ten minutes. ‘Then she 
began to get tired. The beggars worried her, the 
dust blew in her eyes, and she remembered that a 
young girl ought not to loiter in public places. She 
descended slowly into the Piazza with the intention 
of rejoining Miss Lavish, who was really almost 
too original. But at that moment Miss Lavish 
and her local-colour box moved also, and disap- 
peared down a side street, both gesticulating largely. 

Tears of indignation came to Lucy’s eyes— 
partly because Miss Lavish had jilted her, partly 
because she had taken her Baedeker. How could 
she find her way home? WHow could she find her 
way about in Santa Croce? Her first morning was 
ruined, and she might never be in Florence again. 
A few minutes ago she had been all high spirits, 
talking as a woman of culture, and half persuading 
herself that she was full of originality. Now she 
entered the church depressed and humiliated, not 
even able to remember whether it was built by the 
Franciscans or the Dominicans. 

Of course, it must be a wonderful building. But 
how like a barn! And how very cold! Of course, 
it contained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of 
whose tactile values she was capable of feeling what 
was proper. But who was to tell her which they 
were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling 
to be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain 
authorship or date. There was no one even to tell 
her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the 

—38— 


In Santa Croce with No Baedeker 


nave and transepts, was the one that was really 
beautiful, the one that had been most praised by 
Mr. Ruskin. 

Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on 
her, and, instead of acquiring information, she be- 
gan to be happy. She puzzled out the Italian 
notices—the notices that forbade people to intro- 
duce dogs into the church—the notice that prayed 
people, in the interest of health and out of respect 
to the sacred edifice in which they found them- 
selves, not to spit. She watched the tourists; their 
noses were as red as their Baedekers, so cold was 
Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that 
overtook three Papists—two he-babies and a she- 
baby—who began their career by sousing each other 
with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to the 
Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Ad- 
vancing towards it very slowly and from immense 
distances, they touched the stone with their fingers, 
with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then 
retreated. What could this mean? They did it 
again and again. Then Lucy realized that they 
had mistaken ‘Machiavelli for some saint, hoping 
to acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. 
The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sep- 
ulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and 
entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent 
bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy darted for- 
ward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the 
prelate’s upturned toes. 


A Room with a View 





‘Hateful bishop!” exclaimed the voice of old Mr. 
Emerson, who had darted forward also. ‘Hard 
in life, hard in death. Go out into the sunshine, 
little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that 
is where you ought to be. Intolerable bishop!” 

The child screamed frantically at these words, 
and at these dreadful people who picked him up, 
dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not. 
to be superstitious. 

“Look at him!” said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. 
‘‘Here’s a mess: a baby hurt, cold, and frightened ! 
But what else can you expect from a church?” 

The child’s legs had become as melting wax. 
Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it 
erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an 
Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her 
prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious 
virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened 
the little boy’s back-bone and imparted strength 
to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agi- 
tation, he walked away. 

‘You are a clever woman,” said ‘Mr. Emerson. 
“You have done more than all the relics in the 
world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe 
in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. 
There is no scheme of the universe—” 

He paused for a phrase. 

‘“‘Niente,” said the Italian lady, and returned to 
her prayers. 


’ 


—40— 


In Santa Croce with No Baedeker 





“I’m not sure she understands English,’ sug- 
gested Lucy. 

In her chastened mood she no longer despised 
the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious 
to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if pos- 
sible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some 
gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. 

‘That woman understands everything,” was Mr. 
Emerson’s reply. “But what are you doing here? 
Are you doing the church? Are you through with 
the church?” 

“No,” cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. 
“TI came here with Miss Lavish, who was to ex- 
plain everything; and just by the door—it is too 
bad!—she simply ran away, and after waiting quite 
a time, I had to come in by myself.” 

‘Why shouldn’t you?” said Mr. Emerson. 

“Yes, why shouldn’t you come by yourself?” said 
the son, addressing the young lady for the frst 
time. 

“But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker.”’ 

“Baedeker?” said Mr. Emerson. “I’m glad it’s 
that you minded. It’s worth minding, the loss of 
a Baedeker. That's worth minding.” 

Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of 
some new idea, and was not sure whither it would 
lead her. 

“If you’ve no Baedeker,” said the son, “you'd 
better join us.” 


A Room with a View 


Was this where the idea would lead? She took 
refuge in her dignity. 

“Thank you very much, but I could not think 
of that. I hope you do not suppose that I came 
to join on to you. I really came to help with the - 
child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us 
your rooms last night. I hope that you have not 
been put to any great inconvenience.” 

‘(My dear,” said the old man gently, ‘“ I think 
that you are repeating what you have heard older 
people say. You are pretending to be touchy; 
but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, 
and tell me instead what part of the church you 
want to see. To take you to it will be a real 
pleasure.” 

Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she 
ought to have been furious. But it is sometimes 
as difficult to lose one’s temper as it is difficult at 
other times to keep it. Lucy could not get cross. 
Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl 
might humour him. On the other hand, his son 
was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought 
to be offended with him, or at all events be offended 
before him. It was at him that she gazed before 
replying. 

‘“T am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that 
I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they 
are.’ 

The son nodded. With a look of sombre satis- 
faction, he led the way. to the Peruzzi Chapel. 

—42— 





In Santa Croce with No Baedeker 





There was a hint of the teacher about him. She 
felt like a child in school who had answered a 
question rightly. 

The chapel was already filled with an earnest 
congregation, and out of them rose the voice of a 
lecturer, directing them how to worship Giotto, 
not by tactful valuations, but by the standards of 
the spirit. 

‘‘Remember,” he was saying, “the facts about | 
this church of Santa Croce; how it was built by 
faith in the full fervour of medievalism, before 
any taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Ob- 
serve how Giotto in these frescoes—now, unhappily, 
ruined by restoration—is untroubled by the snares 
of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be 
more majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true? 
How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical 
cleverness against a man who truly feels!” 

“No! exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too 
loud a voice for church. ‘‘Remember nothing of 
the sort! Built by faith indeed! That simply 
means the workmen weren’t paid properly. And 
as for the frescoes, I see no truth in them. Look 
at that fat man in blue! He must weigh as much 
as I do, and he is shooting into the sky like an air- 
balloon.” 

He was referring to the fresco of the “‘Ascension 
of St. John.” Inside, the lecturer’s voice faltered, 
as well it might. The audience shifted uneasily, 
and so did Lucy. She was sure that she ought 


A Room with a View 





not to be with these men; but they had cast a 
spell over her. ‘They were so serious and so strange 
that she could not remember how to behave. 

‘‘Now, did this happen, or didn’t it? Yes or 
no?” 

George replied: 

‘It happened like this, if it happened at all. 
I would rather go up to heaven by myself than 
be pushed by cherubs; and if I got there I should 
like my friends to lean out of it, just as they do 
here,” 

“You will never go up,” said his father. “You 
and I, dear boy, will lie at peace in the earth that 
bore us, and our names will disappear as surely as 
our work survives.”’ | 

‘Some of the people can only see the empty 
grave, not the saint, whoever he is, going up. It 
did happen like that, if it happened at all.” 

‘Pardon me,” said a frigid voice. ‘“‘The chapel 
is somewhat small for two parties. We will in- 
commode you no longer.”’ 

The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience 
must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books 
as well as guide-books in their hands. They filed 
out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were 
the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini 
—Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan. 

“Stop!” cried Mr. Emerson. ‘“There’s plenty 
of room for us all. Stop!” 

The procession disappeared without a word. 


ae 


In Santa Croce with No Baedeker 





Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, 
describing the life of St. Francis. 

“George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brix- 
ton curate.” 

George went into the next chapel and returned, 
saying, ‘Perhaps he is. I don’t remember.” 

‘Then I had better speak to him and remind 
him whol am. It’s that Mr. Eager. Why did he 
go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I 
shall go and say we are sorry. Hadn't I better? 
Then perhaps he will come back.”’ 

‘He will not come back,” said George. 

But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hur- 
ried away to apologize to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager. 
Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear 
the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive 
voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies of 
his opponent. The son, who took every little con- 
tretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening 
also. 

“My father has that effect on nearly every one,” 
he informed her. ‘He will try to be kind.” 

“T hope we all try,” said she, smiling nervously. 

“Because we think it improves our characters. 
But he is kind to people because he loves them; 
and they find him out, and are offended, or fright- 
ened.” 

“How silly of them!” said Lucy, though in her 
heart she sympathized; “I think that a kind action 
done tactfully—” 


A Room with a View 


“Tact 1” 

He threw up his head in disdain. Apparently 
she had given the wrong answer. She watched 
the singular creature pace up and down the chapel. 
For a young man his face was rugged, and—until 
the shadows fell upon it—hard. Enshadowed, it 
sprang into tenderness. She saw him once again 
at Rome, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carry- 
ing a burden of acorns. Healthy and muscular, 
he yet gave her the feeling of greyness, of tragedy 
that might only find solution in the night. The 
feeling soon passed; it was unlike her to have en- 
tertained anything so subtle. Born of silence and 
of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr. Emerson 
returned, and she could re-enter the world of rapid 
talk, which was alone familiar to her. 

‘Were you snubbed?” asked his son tranquilly. 

“But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don’t 
know how many people. They won’t come back.” 

‘. . full of innate sympathy . . . quickness to 
perceive good in others . . . vision of the brother- 
hood of man...” Scraps of the lecture on St. 
Francis came floating round the partition wall. 

“Don’t let us spoil yours,’ he continued to Lucy. 
‘“Have you looked at those saints?” 

“Yes,” said Lucy. “They are lovely. Do you 
know which is the tombstone that is praised in 
Ruskin ?”’ 

He did not know, and suggested that they should 
try to guess it. George, rather to her relief, re- 

ay | 





In Santa Croce with No Baedeker 


fused to move, and she and the old man wandered 
not unpleasantly about Santa Croce, which, though 
it is like a barn, has harvested many beautiful things 
inside its walls. There were also beggars to avoid, 
and guides to dodge round the pillars, and an old 
lady with her dog, and here and there a priest 
modestly edging to his Mass through the groups of 
tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only half inter- 
ested. He watched the lecturer, whose success he 
believed he had impaired, and then he anxiously 
watched his son. 

“Why will he look at that fresco?” he said un- 
easily. “I saw nothing in it.” 

“TI like Giotto,” she replied. “It is so wonder- 
ful what they say about his tactile values. Though 
I like things like the Della Robbia babies better.” 

‘So you ought. A baby is worth a dozen saints. 
And my baby’s worth the whole of Paradise, and as 
far as I can see he lives in Hell.” 

Lucy again felt that this did not do. 

“In Hell,” he repeated. “He’s unhappy.” 

“Oh, dear!’ said Lucy. 

‘Flow can he be unhappy when he is strong and 
alive? What more is one to give him? And think 
how he has been brought up—free from all the 
superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate 
one another in the name of God. With such an 
education as that, I thought he was bound to grow 
up happy.” 

She was no theologian, but she felt that here 


A Room with a View 





was a very foolish old man, as well as a very irre- 
ligious one. She also felt that her mother might 
not like her talking to that kind of person, and 
that Charlotte would object most strongly. 

‘“What are we to do with him?” he asked. “He 
comes out for his holiday to Italy, and behaves— 
like that; like the little child who ought to have 
been playing, and who hurt himself upon the tomb- 
stone. Eh? What did you say?” 

Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he 
said: 

‘‘Now don’t be stupid over this. I don’t re- 
quire you to fall in love with my boy, but I do 
think you might try and understand him. You 
are nearer his age, and if you let yourself go 1 am 
sure you are sensible. You might help me. He 
has known so few women, and you have the time. 
You stop here several weeks, I suppose? But let 
yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled, if 
I may judge from last night. Let yourself go. 
Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you 
do not understand, and spread them out in the 
sunlight and know the meaning of them. By 
understanding George you may learn to under- 
stand yourself. It will be good for both of you.” 

To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no an- 
swer. 

“T only know what it is that’s wrong with him; 
not why it is”’ 

—48— 


In Santa Croce with No Baedeker 


“And what is it?’ asked Lucy fearfully, expect- 
ing some harrowing tale. 

‘The old trouble; things won’t fit.” 

“What things ?” 

“The things of the universe. It is quite true. 
They don’t.” 

“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?” 

In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely re- 
alized he was quoting poetry, he said: 


““From far, from eve and morning, 
And yon twelve-winded sky, 
The stuff of life to knit me 
Blew hither: here am ~’ 


George and I both know this, but why does it 
distress him? We know that we come from the 
winds, and that we shall return to them; that all 
life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the ~ 
eternal smoothness. But why should this make 
us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, 
and work and rejoice. I don’t believe in this 
world sorrow.” 

Miss Honeychurch assented. 

“Then make my boy think like us. Make him 
realize that by the side of the everlasting Why 
there is a Yes—a transitory Yes if you like, but a 
Yes: ‘ 

Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. 
A young man melancholy because the universe 


A. Room with a View 





wouldn’t fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, 
or a Yes, or something! 

‘T’m very sorry,” she cried. “You'll think me 
unfeeling, but—but—” Then she became matronly. 
‘Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no 
particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, 
but I can generally forget them at the piano; and 
collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. 
Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps 
or the Lakes.” | 

The old man’s face saddened, and he touched 
her gently with his hand. ‘This did not alarm her; 
she thought that her advice had impressed him and 
that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no 
longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a 
kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were as 
inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago 
esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The dear 
George, now striding towards them over the tomb- 
stones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He ap- 
proached, his face in the shadow. He said: 

‘‘Miss Bartlett.” 

“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly 
collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in 
a new perspective. ‘“‘Where? Where?” 

“In the nave.” 

“T see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must 
have—” She checked herself. 

‘Poor girl!’ exploded Mr. Emerson. ‘Poor 
girl!” | 

—5O— 


In Santa Croce with No Baedeker 


She could not let this pass, for it was just what 
she was feeling herself. 

“Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of 
that remark. I think myself a very fortunate 
girl, l assure you. I’m thoroughly happy, and hav- 
ing a splendid time. Pray don’t waste time mourn- 
ing over me. ‘[here’s enough sorrow in the world, 
isn’t there, without trying to invent it. Good-bye. 
Thank you both so much for all your kindness. 
Ah, yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful 
morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.” 

She joined her cousin. 


—51— 


Chapter III: Music, Violets, and the 
hetteranon 


T so happened that Lucy, who found daily life 
| rather chaotic, entered a more solid world 
when she opened the piano. She was then no 
longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer 
either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music 
is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those 
whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike 
rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, 
and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst 
we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, 
and thinking how we could worship him and love 
him, would he but translate his visions into human 
words, and his experiences into human actions. 
Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does 
so very seldom. Lucy had done so never. 

She was no dazzling exécutante; her runs were not 
at all like strings of pearls. and she struck no more 
right notes than was suitable for one of her age 
and situation. Nor was she the passionate young 
lady, who performs so tragically on a summer’s 
evening with the window open. Passion was there, 
but it could not be easily labelled; it slipped be- 
tween love and hatred and jealousy, and all the 


Music, Violets, and the Letter “S” 


furniture of the pictorial style. And she was 
tragical only in the sense that she was great, for 
she loved to play on the side of Victory. Victory 
of what and over what—that is more than the words 
of daily life can tell us. But that some sonatas of 
Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay; yet 
they can triumph or despair as the player decides, 
and Lucy had decided that they should triumph. 

A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted 
her to do the thing she really liked, and after 
lunch she opened the little draped piano. A few 
people lingered round and praised her playing, but 
finding that she made no reply, dispersed to their 
rooms to write up their diaries or to sleep. She 
took no notice of Mr. Emerson looking for his son, 
nor-of Miss Bartlett looking for Miss Lavish, nor 
of Miss Lavish looking for her cigarette-case. Like 
every true performer, she was intoxicated by the 
mere feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing 
her own; and by touch, not by sound alone, did she 
come to her desire. 

Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pon- 
dered over this illogical element in Miss Honey- 
church, and recalled the occasion at Tunbridge Wells 
when he had discovered it. It was at one of those 
entertainments where the upper classes entertain the 
lower. The seats were filled with a respectful 
audience, and the ladies and gentlemen of the parish, 
under the auspices of their vicar, sang, or recited, 
or imitated the drawing of a champagne cork. 


A Room with a View 





Among the promised items was ‘‘Miss Honeychurch. 
Piano. Beethoven,’ and Mr. Beebe was wonder- 
ing whether it would be 4delaida, or the march of 
The Ruins of Athens, when his composure was dis- 
turbed by the opening bars of Opus III. He was in 
suspense all through the introduction, for not until 
the pace quickens does one know what the performer 
intends. With the roar of the opening theme he 
knew that things were going extraordinarily; in 
the chords that herald the conclusion he heard the 
hammer strokes of victory. He was glad that she 
only played the first movement, for he could have 
paid no attention to the winding intricacies of the 
measures of nine-sixteen. The audience clapped, 
no less respectful. It was Mr. Beebe who started 
the stamping; it was all that one could do. 

‘Who is she?” he asked the vicar afterwards. 

“Cousin of one of my parishioners. I do not 
consider her choice of a piece happy. Beethoven 
is so usually simple and direct in his appeal that it is 
sheer perversity to choose a thing like that, which, 
if anything, disturbs.” 

‘Introduce me.” 

‘She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett 
are full of the praises of your sermon.” 

“My sermon?” cried Mr. Beebe. “Why ever 
did she listen to it?” 


When he was introduced he understood why, - 


for Miss Honeychurch, disjoined from her music- 
stool, was only a young lady with a quantity of 


Music, Violets, and the Letter ‘“S” 


dark hair and a very pretty, pale, undeveloped face. 
She loved going to concerts, she loved stopping with 
her cousin, she loved iced coffee and meringues. 
He did not doubt that she loved his sermon also. 
But before he left Tunbridge Wells he made a re- 
mark to the vicar, which he now made to Lucy 
herself when she closed the little piano and moved 
dreamily towards him: 

“If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she 
plays, it will be very exciting—both for us and for 
her.” 

Lucy at once re-entered daily life. 

“Oh, what a funny thing! Some one said just 
the same to mother, and she said she trusted I should 
never live a duet.” 

‘“Doesn’t Mrs. Honeychurch like music?” 

“She doesn’t mind it. But she doesn’t like one 
to get excited over anything; she thinks I am silly 
about it. She thinks—I can’t make out. Once, 
you know, I said that I liked my own playing better 
than any one’s. She has never got over it. Of 
course, I didn’t mean that I played well; I only 
meant—’”’ 

“Of course,” said he, wondering why she bothered 
to explain. 

““Music—” said Lucy, as if attempting some gen- 
erality. She could not complete it, and looked out 
absently upon Italy in the wet. The whole life 
of the South was disorganized, and the most grace- 
ful nation in Europe had turned into formless lumps 





A Room with a View 





of clothes. The street and the river were dirty 
yellow, the bridge was dirty grey, and the hills were 
dirty purple. Somewhere in their folds were con- 
cealed Miss Lavish and Miss Bartlett, who had 
chosen this afternoon to visit the Torre del Gallo. 

“What about music?” said Mr. Beebe. | 

“Poor Charlotte will be sopped,” was Lucy’s 
reply. 

The expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett, who 
would return cold, tired, hungry, and angelic, with 
a ruined skirt, a pulpy Baedeker, and a tickling cough 
in her throat. On another day, when the whole 
world was singing and the air ran into the mouth 
like wine, she would refuse to stir from the drawing- 
room, saying that she was an old thing, and no fit 
companion for a hearty girl. 

‘Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She 
hopes to find the true Italy in the wet I believe.”’ 

‘Miss Lavish is so original,’ murmured Lucy. 
This. was a stock remark, the supreme achievement 
of the Pension Bertolini in the way of definition. 
Miss Lavish was so original. Mr. Beebe had his 
doubts, but they would have been put down to cler- 
ical narrowness. For that, and for other reasons, 
he held his peace. 

‘Ts it true,” continued Lucy in awe-struck tones, 
“that Miss Lavish is writing a book?” 

‘They do say so.” 

‘What is it about?” 

“Tt will be a novel,” replied Mr. Beebe, “‘deal- 

—56— 


4 


Music, Violets, and the Letter “S” 


ing with modern Italy. Let me refer you for an 
account to Miss Catharine Alan, who uses words 
herself more admirably than any one I know.” 

“I wish Miss Lavish would tell me herself. We 
started such friends. But I don’t think she ought 
to have run away with Baedeker that morning in 
Santa Croce. Charlotte was most annoyed at find- 
ing me practically alone, and so I couldn’t help be- 
ing a little annoyed with Miss Lavish.” 

“The two ladies, at all events, have made it up.” 

He was interested in the sudden friendship be- 
tween women so apparently dissimilar as Miss Bart- 
lett and Miss Lavish. They were always in each 
other’s company, with Lucy a slighted third. Miss 
Lavish he believed he understood, but Miss Bartlett 
might reveal unknown depths of strangeness, though 
not, perhaps, of meaning. Was Italy deflecting her 
from the path of prim chaperon, which he had as- 
signed to her at- Tunbridge Wells? All his life 
he had loved to study maiden ladies; they were 
his specialty, and his profession had provided him 
with ample opportunities for the work. Girls like 
Lucy were charming to look at, but Mr. Beebe was, 
from rather profound reasons, somewhat chilly in 
his attitude towards the other sex, and preferred 
to be interested rather than enthralled. 

Lucy, for the third time, said that poor Charlotte 
would be sopped. The Arno was rising in flood, 
washing away the traces of the little carts upon the 
foreshore. But in the south-west there had ap- 


A Room with a View 





peared a dull haze of yellow, which might mean 
better weather if it did not mean worse. She 
opened the window to inspect, and a cold blast 
entered the room, drawing a plaintive cry from Miss 
Catharine Alan, who entered at the same moment 
by the door. 

“Oh, dear Miss Honeychurch, you will catch a 
chill! And Mr. Beebe here besides. Who would 
suppose this is Italy? There is my sister actually 
nursing the hot-water can; no comforts or proper 
provisions.” 

She sidled towards them and sat down, self-con- 
scious as she always was on entering a room which 
contained one man, or a man and one woman. 

‘T could hear your beautiful playing, Miss Honey- 
church, though I was in my room with the door shut. 
Doors shut; indeed, most necessary. No one has 
the least idea of privacy in this country. And one 
person catches it from another.” 

Lucy answered suitably. Mr. Beebe was not 
able to tell the ladies of his adventure at Modena, 
where the chambermaid burst in upon him in his 
bath, exclaiming cheerfully, “Fa niente, sono 
vecchia.” He contented himself with saying: “I 
quite agree with you, Miss Alan. The Italians are 
a most unpleasant people. ‘They pry everywhere, 
they see everything, and they know what we want 
before we know it ourselves. We are at their mercy. 
They read our thoughts, they foretell our desires. 
From the cab-driver down to—to Giotto, they turn 

—58— 


Music, Violets, and the Letter ‘‘S” 


us inside out, and I resent it. Yet in their heart of 
hearts they are—how superficial! They have no 
conception of the intellectual life. How right is 
Signora Bertolini, who exclaimed to me the other 
day: ‘Ho, Mr. Beebe, if you knew what I suffer 
over the children’s edjucaishion! i won’t ’ave 
my little Victorier taught by a hignorant Italian 
what can’t explain nothink!’ ” 

Miss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she 
was being mocked in an agreeable way. Heer sister 
was a little disappointed in Mr. Beebe, having ex- 
pected better things from a clergyman whose head 
was bald and who wore a pair of russet whiskers. 
Indeed, who would have supposed that tolerance, 
sympathy, and a sense of humour would inhabit that 
militant form? 

In the midst of her satisfaction she continued 
to sidle, and at last the cause was disclosed. From 
the chair beneath her she extracted a gun-metal 
cigarette-case, on which were powdered in turquoise 
the initials “E. L.” 

“That belongs to Lavish,” said the clergyman. 
“A good fellow, Lavish, but I wish she’d start a 
pipe.” 

“Oh, Mr. Beebe,” said Miss Alan, divided be- 
tween awe and mirth. “Indeed, though it is dread- 
ful for her to smoke, it is not quite as dreadful as 
you suppose. She took to it, practically in despair, 
after her life’s work was carried away in a Jand- 
slip. Surely that makes it more excusable.” 


A Room with a View 


‘What was that?” asked Lucy. 

Mr. Beebe sat back complacently, and Miss Alan 
began as follows: 

“It was a novel—and I am afraid, from what I 
can gather, not a very nice novel. It is so sad 
when people who have abilities misuse them, and 
I must say they nearly always do. Anyhow, she left 
it almost finished in the Grotto of the Calvary at 
the Capuccini Hotel at Amalfi while she went for a 
little ink. She said: ‘Can I have a little ink, 
please?’ But you know what Italians are, and 
meanwhile the Grotto fell roaring on to the beach, 
and the saddest thing of all is that she cannot re- 
member what she has written. ‘The poor thing 
was very ill after it, and so got tempted into cigar- 
ettes. It is a great secret, but I am glad to say 
that she is writing another novel. She told Teresa 
and Miss Pole the other day that she had got up 
all the local colour—this novel is to be about modern 
Italy; the other was historical—but that she could 
not start till she had an idea. First she tried Per- 
ugia for an inspiration, then she came here— this 
must on no account get round. And so cheerful 
through it all! JI cannot help thinking that there is 
something to admire in every one, even if you do not 
approve of them.” 

Miss Alan was always thus being charivali 
against her better judgment. A delicate pathos per- 
fumed her disconnected remarks, giving them un- 
expected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn 

hye 





Music, Violets, and the Letter “S” 


woods there sometimes rise odours reminiscent of 
spring. She felt she had made almost too many 
allowances, and apologized hurriedly for her tolera- 
tion. 

“All the same, she is a little too—I hardly like 
to say unwomanly, but she behaved most strangely 
when the Emersons arrived.”’ 

Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an 
anecdote which he knew she would be unable to 
finish in the presence of a gentleman. 

“T don’t know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have 
noticed that Miss Pole, the lady who has so much 
yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr. Emer- 
son, who puts things very strangely—”’ 

Her jaw dropped. She was silent. Mr. Beebe, 
whose social resources were endless, went out to 
order some tea, and she continued to Lucy in a 
hasty whisper: 

“Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stom- 
ach—acidity, he called it—and he may have meant 
tobe kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; 
is was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no 
laughing matter. But the point is that Miss Lavish 
was positively attracted by his mentioning S., and 
said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different 
erades of thought. She thought they were com- 
mercial travellers—‘drummers’ was the word she 
used—and all through dinner she tried to prove that 
England, our great and beloved country, rests on 
nothing but commerce. ‘Teresa was very much an- 


fat 


A Room with a View 





noyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying 
as she did so: ‘There, Miss Lavish, is one who 
can confute you better than I,’ and pointed to that 
beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss 
Lavish said: ‘Tut! The early Victorians.’ Just 
imagine! ‘Tut! ‘The early Victorians.’ My sis- 
ter had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said: 
‘Miss Lavish, J am an early Victorian; at least, that 
is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our 
dear Queen.’ It was horrible speaking. I re- 
minded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when 
she did not want to go, and I must say she was 
dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, 
Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his 
deep voice: ‘Quite so, quite so! I honour the 
woman for her Irish visit.” The woman! I tell 
things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were 
in by this time, all on account of S. having been 
mentioned in the first place. But that was not all. 
After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said: 
‘Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to 
talk to those two nice men. Come, too.’ Need- 
less to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, 
and she had the impertinence to tell me that it 
would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four 
brothers, all University men, except one who was in 
the army, who always made a point of talking to 
commercial travellers.” 

‘Let me finish the story,” said Mr. Beebe, who 
had returned. ‘Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, my- 

—62— 


Music, Violets, and the Letter “S” 


self, every one, and finally said: ‘I shall go alone.’ 
She went. At the end of five minutes she returned 
unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began 
playing patience.” 

‘Whatever happened?” cried Lucy. 

‘No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss 
Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson 
does not think it worth telling.” 

“Mr. Beebe—old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not 
nice? Ido so want to know.” 

Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should 
settle the question for herself. 

“No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so 
silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what 
do you think? Is he nice?” 

The little old lady shook her head, and sighed 
disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversa- 
tion amused, stirred her up by saying: 

“TI consider that you are bound to class him as 
nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets.”’ 

“Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the 
violets? How do things get round? A pension is 
a sad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how 
they behaved at Mr. Eager’s lecture at Santa Croce. 
Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too 
bad! No, I have quite changed. I do not like the 
Emersons. ‘They are not nice.” 

Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made 
a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into 
Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was 

—63- 


A Room with a View 





almost the only person who remained friendly to 
them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was 
avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who 
stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss 
Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would 
scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. 
She had given him a hazy account of her adventures 
in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men 
had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt 
to annex her, to show her the world from their own 
strange standpoint, to interest her in their private 
sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did 
not wish their cause to be championed by a young 
girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he 
knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension 
sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be 
his parishioner. 

Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said 
that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that 
she saw anything of them now. Even their seats 
at dinner had been moved. 

“But aren’t they always waylaying you to go out 
with them, dear?” said the little lady inquisitively. 

‘Only once. Charlotte didn’t like it, and said 
something—dquite politely, of course.” 

‘Most right of her. They don’t understand our 
ways. They must find their level.” 

Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. 
They had given up their attempt—if it was one—to 
conquer society, and now the father was almost as 

—64— 


Music, Violets, and the Letter “S” 


silent as the son. He wondered whether he would 
not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they 
left—some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well 
chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. 
Beebe’s chief pleasures to provide people with happy 
memories. . 

Evening approached while they chatted; the air 
became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills 
were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity 
and began to twinkle. ‘There were a few streaks 
of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of 
watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping 
facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the de- 
clining sun. 

‘Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice 
of relief. ‘All the galleries are shut.” 

“T think I shall go out,” said Lucy. “I want to 
go round the town in the circular tram—on the plat- 
form by the driver.” 

Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, 
who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss 
Bartlett, ventured to say: 

“T wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If 
you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on 
your feet?” 

“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan. 

‘Perhaps I shall meet some one who reads me 
through and through!” 

But they still looked disapproval, and she so far 
conceded to Mr. Beebe as to say that she would only 

—65— 


A Room with a View 


go for a little walk, and keep to the street fre- 


quented by tourists. 

‘She oughtn’t really to go at all,” said Mr. Beebe, 
as they watched ther from the window, “and she 
knows it. I put it down to too much Beethoven.” 


66a 


Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter 


R. BEEBE was right. Lucy never knew 
M her desires so clearly as after music. 

She ‘had not really appreciated the clergy- 
man’s wit, nor the suggestive twitterings of Miss 
Alan. Conversation was tedious; she wanted some- 
thing big, and she believed that it would have come 
to her on the wind-swept platform of an electric 
tram. 

This she might not attempt. It was unladylike. 
Why? Why were most big things unladylike? 
Charlotte had once explained to her why. It was 
not that ladies were inferior to men; it was 
that they were different. Their mission was to 
inspire others to achievement rather than to achieve 
themselves. Indirectly, by means of tact and a spot- 
less name, a lady could accomplish much. But if 
she rushed into the fray herself she would be first 
censured, then despised, and finally ignored. Poems 
had been written to illustrate this point. 

There is much that is immortal in this medieval 
lady. The dragons have gone, and so have the 
knights, but still she lingers in our midst. She 
reigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was 
Queen of much early Victorian song. It is sweet to 


—67- 


A Room with a View 





protect her in the intervals of business, sweet to pay 
her honour when she has cooked our dinner well. 
But alas! the creature grows degenerate. In her 
heart also there are springing up strange desires. 
She too is enamoured of heavy winds, and vast pan- 
oramas, and green expanses of the sea. She has 
marked the kingdom of this world, how full it is of 
wealth, and beauty, and war—a radiant crust, built 
around the central fires, spinning towards the reced- 
ing heavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them 
to it, move joyfully over the surface, having the 
most delightful meetings with other men, happy, not 
because they are masculine, but because they are 
alive. Before the show breaks up she would like to 
drop the august title of the Eternal Woman, and go 
there as her transitory self. 

Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who 
“was rather an ideal to which she was bidden to 
lift her eyes when feeling serious. Nor has she 
any system of revolt. Here and there a restric- 
tion annoyed her particularly, and she would trans- 
gress it, and perhaps be sorry that she had done 
so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. 
She would really like to do something of which 
her well-wishers disapproved. Asa she might not 
go on the electric tram, she went to Alinarl’s 
shop. 

There she bought a photograph of Botticelli’s 
“Birth of Venus.” Venus, being a pity, spoilt the 
picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett 

—68— 


See Som 


Fourth Chapter 





had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art 
of course signified the nude.) Giorgione’s “Tem- 
pesta,”’ the “‘Idolino,” some of the Sistine frescoes 
and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt 
a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico’s 
“Coronation,” Giotto’s ‘Ascension of St. John,” 
some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni 
Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she 
extended uncritical approval to every well-known 
name. 

But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates 
of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious 
of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious 
of it. ‘The world,” she thought, “‘is certainly full 
of beautiful things, if only I could come across 
them.” It was not surprising that Mrs. Honey- 
church disapproved of music, declaring that it al- 
ways left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and 
touchy. 

‘Nothing ever happens to me,” she reflected, as 
she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked non- 
chalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. 
The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had 
come too late to strike it. Neptune was already 
unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, 
and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and 
satyrs who idled together on its marge. The 
Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, 
wherein dwelt many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, 
looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of 


—69- 


b] 


A Room with a View 





mankind. It was the hour of unreality—the hour, 
that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older 
person at such an hour and in such a place might 
think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest 
content. Lucy desired more. 

She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the 
palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a 
pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a 
tower, no longer supported by earth, but some un- 
attainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. 
Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before 
her eyes when she bent them to the ground and 
started towards home. 

Then something did happen. 

Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering 
about a debt. “Cinque lire,” they thad cried, 
_“cinque lire!’ They sparred at each other, and 
one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He 
frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of 
interest, as if he had an important message for her. 
He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red 
came out between them and trickled down his un- 
shaven chin. 

That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. 
It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore 
him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson 
happened to be a few paces away, looking at her 
across the spot where the man had been. How 
very odd! Across something. Even as she caught 
sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew 


Fourth Chapter 





dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, 
noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. 

She thought: ‘Oh, what have I done?” 

“Oh, what have I done?” she murmured, and 
opened her eyes. 

George Emerson still looked at her, but not 
across anything. She had complained of dullness, 
and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her 
in his arms. 

They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi 
Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose 
when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She 
repeated: 

“Oh, what have I done?” 

“You fainted.” 

“I—TI am very sorry.” 

“How are you now?” 

‘Perfectly well—absolutely well.” And she be- 
gan to nod and smile. 

‘Then let us come home. ‘There’s no point in 
our stopping.” 

He held out his hand to pull her up. She pre- 
tended not to see it. The cries from the fountain— 
they had never ceased—rang emptily. The whole 
world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. 

‘How very kind you have been! I might have 
hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can 
go alone, thank you.” 

_ His hand was still extended. 
“Oh, my photographs!” she exclaimed suddenly. 


—71- 


A Room with a View 


‘What photographs?” 

“T bought some photographs at Alinari’s. I 
must have dropped them out there in the square.” 
She looked at him cautiously. ‘Would you add to 
your kindness by fetching them?” 

He added to his kindness. As soon as he had 
turned his back, Lucy arose with the cunning of a 
maniac and stole down the arcade towards the 
Arno. 

‘Miss Honeychurch !” 

She stopped with her hand on her heart. 

‘You sit still; you aren’t fit to go home alone.” 

‘Yes, I am, thank you so very much.” 

‘‘No, you aren’t. You’d go openly if you were.” 

“But I had rather—” 

“Then I don’t fetch your photographs.” 

‘IT had rather be alone.” 

He said imperiously: ‘The man is dead—the 
man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested.” 
She was bewildered, and obeyed him. ‘And don’t 
move till I come back.” 

In the distance she saw creatures with black 
hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace 
tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, 
and joined itself to earth. How should she talk 
to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shad- 
owy square? Again the thought occurred to her, 
“Oh, what have I done?’’—the thought that she, 
as well as the dying man, had crossed some spir- 
itual boundary. 


Fourth Chapter 





He returned, and she talked of the murder. 
Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of 
the Italian character; she became almost garrulous 
over the incident that had made her faint five min- 
utes before. Being strong physically, she soon 
overcame the horror of blood. She rose without 
his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter 
inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the 
Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they 
refused him. 

“And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say 
—how very odd Italians are!—and gave himself 
up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Ital- 
ians know everything, but I think they are rather 
childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti 
yesterday— What was that?” 

He had thrown something into the stream. 

‘What did you throw in?” 

“Things I didn’t want,” he said crossly. 

“Mr. Emerson!” 

“Well hg 

“Where are the photographs ?””’ 

He was silent. 

“T believe it was my photographs that you threw 
away. 

“T didn’t know what to do with them,” he cried, ~ 
and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her 
heart warmed towards him for the first time. 
“They were covered with blood. There! I’m glad 
I’ve told you; and all the time we were mak- 


A Room with a View 


ing. conversation I was wondering what to do 
with them.” He pointed down-stream. ‘They've 
gone.” The river swirled under the bridge. “I 
did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed 
better that they should go out to the sea—I don’t 
know; I may just mean that they frightened me.” 
Then the boy verged into a man. “For something 
tremendous has happened; I must face it without 
getting muddled. It isn’t exactly that a man has 
died.” 

Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. 
“Tt has happened,” he repeated, ‘and I mean 
to find out what it is.” 

“Mr. Emerson—” 

He turned towards her frowning, as if she had 
disturbed him in some abstract quest. 

‘“T want to ask you something before we go in.” 

They were close to their pension. She stopped 
.and leant her elbows against the parapet of the 
embankment. He did likewise. There is at times 
a magic in identity of position; it is one of the 
things that have suggested to us eternal comrade- 
ship. She moved her elbows before saying: 

“T have behaved ridiculously.” 

He was following his own thoughts. 

‘“T was never so much ashamed of myself in my 
life; I cannot think what came over me.”’ 

‘T nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt 
that her attitude repelled him. 

‘Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.” 

—74- 


Fourth Chapter 


“Oh, all right.” 

“And—this is the real point—you know how 
silly people are gossiping—ladies especially, I am 
afraid—you understand what I mean?” 

“Tm afraid I don’t.” 

“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, 
my foolish behaviour?” 

“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right—all right.” 

“Thank you so much. And would you—” 

She could not carry her request any further. 
The river was rushing below them, almost black in 
the advancing night. He had thrown her photo- 
graphs into it, and then he had told her the reason. 
It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chiv- 
alry in such a man. He would do her no harm by 
idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and 
even kind; he might even have a high opinion of 
her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his 
behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was 
useless to say to him, ‘“‘And would you—” and hope 
that he would complete the sentence for himself, 
averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight 
in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, 
and he remembered it, just as he remembered the 
blood on the photographs that she had bought in 
Alinari’s shop. It was not exactly that a man had 
died; something had happened to the living: they 
had come to a situation where character tells, and 
where Childhood enters upon the branching paths 

of Youth. 





A Room with a View 





“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated. 
‘How quickly these accidents do happen, and then 
ene returns to the old life!” 

Sl don't} 

Anxiety moved her to question him. 

His answer was puzzling: “I shall probably 
want to live.” 

“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?” 

‘I shall want to live, I say.” 

Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contem- 
plated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting 
some unexpected melody to her ears. 


—7 6— 


Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant 
Outing 


which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” 

She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over 
Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it 
quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the 
courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss 
Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been 
stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young 
officials there, who seemed impudent and déswuvré, 
had tried to search their reticules for provisions. 
It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately 
Miss Lavish was a match for any one. 

For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her 
problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, 
either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embank- 
ment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled 
eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself 
the remark of ‘Too much Beethoven.” But he 
only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, 
not that she had encountered it. This solitude 
oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her 
thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, con- 
tradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether 
she was thinking right or wrong. 


‘a was a family saying that “you never knew 


A Room with a View 





At breakfast next morning she took decisive ac- 
tion. There were two plans between which she 
had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the 
Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some Amer- 
ican ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Hon- 
eychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for 
herself; she had been there in the rain the previous 
afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea 
for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, 
fetching letters, and other irksome duties—all of 
which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning 
and could easily accomplish alone. 

‘No, Charlotte!’ cried the girl, with real 
warmth. “It’s very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I 
am certainly coming with you. I had much 
rather.” 

‘Very well, dear,’ said Miss Bartlett, with a 
faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep 
flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abom- 
inably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! 
But now she should alter. All morning she would 
be really nice to her. 

She slipped her arm into her cousin’s, and they 
started off along the Lung’ Arno. The river was 
a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. 
Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet 
to look at it. She then made her usual remark, 
which was: 

‘How I do wish Freddy and your mother could 
see this, too!”’ 

—78— 


Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing 





Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to 
have stopped exactly where she did. 

“Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the 
Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent 
you of your choice.” 

Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not 
repent. Yesterday had been a muddle—queer and 
odd, the kind of thing one could not write down 
easily on paper—but she had a feeling that Char- 
lotte and her shopping were preferable to George 
Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. 
Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must 
take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sin- 
cerely against Miss Bartlett’s insinuations. 

But though she had avoided the chief actor, the 
scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with 
the complacency of fate, led her from the river to 
the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed 
that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, 
would have such significance. For a moment she 
understood the nature of ghosts. 

The exact site of the murder was occupied, not 
by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morn- 
ing newspaper in her hand. She hailed them 
briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous 
day had given her an idea which she thought would 
work up into a book. 

“Oh, let me congratulate you!’’ said Miss Bart- 
lett. “After your despair of yesterday! What 
a fortunate thing!” 


A Room Sith a View 





“Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here! I 
am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely 
everything that you saw from the beginning.” 

Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. 

‘But perhaps you would rather not?” 

“T’m sorry—if you could manage without it, I 
think I would rather not.” 

The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of dis- 
approval; it is suitable that a girl should feel 
deeply. 

‘Tt is I who am sorry,” said Miss Lavish. “We 
literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe 
there’s no secret of the human heart into which we 
wouldn’t pry.” 

She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, 
and did a few calculations in realism. Then she 
said that she had been in the Piazza since eight 
o’clock collecting material. A good deal of it was 
unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. 
The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. 
For the five-franc note she should substitute a 
young lady, which would raise the tone of the trag- 
edy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. 

“What is the heroine’s name?” asked Miss Bart- — 
lett. 

“Leonora,” said Miss Lavish; her own name 
was Eleanor. 

“TI do hope she’s nice.” 

That desideratum would not be omitted. 

‘‘And what is the plot?” 

—80-— 


Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing 


Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. 
Out it all came while the fountain plashed to the 
satyrs in the morning sun. 

“I hope you will excuse me for boring on like 
this,’ Miss Lavish concluded. “It is so tempting 
to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, 
this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of 
local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the 
neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some 
humorous characters. And let me give you all fair 
warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British 
tourist.” 

“Oh, you wicked woman,” cried Miss Bartlett. 
“IT am sure you are thinking of the Emersons.” 

Miss Lavish gave a ‘Machiavellian smile. 

“I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not 
with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Ital- 
ians who attract me, and whose lives I am going 
to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, 
and I have always held most strongly, that a trag- 
edy such as yesterday’s is not the less tragic because 
it happened in humble life.” 

There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish 
had concluded. ‘Then the cousins wished success 
to her labours, and walked slowly away across the 
square. 

‘She is my idea of a really clever woman,” said 
Miss Bartlett. ‘That last remark struck me as so 
particularly true. It should be a most pathetic 
novel.” 


b) 


<i T— 


A Room with a View 





Lucy assented. At present her great aim was 
not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morn- 
ing were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss 
Lavish had her on trial for an ingénue. 

‘She is emancipated, but only in the very best 
sense of the word,’ continued Miss Bartlett 
slowly. “None but the superficial would be shocked 
at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She be- 
lieves in justice and truth and human interest. She 
told me also that she has a high opinion of the 
destiny of woman— Mr. Eager! Why, how 
nice! What a pleasant surprise!” 

‘‘Ah, not for me,” said the chaplain blandly, ‘for 
I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch 
for quite a little time.” 

‘We were chatting to Miss Lavish.” 

His brow contracted. 

“So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! 
sono occupato!’? ‘The last remark was made to a 
vender of panoramic photographs who was ap- 
proaching with a courteous smile. ‘I am about to 
venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honey- 
church be disposed to join me in a drive some day 
this week—a drive in the hills? We might go up 
by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a 
point on that road where we could get down and 
have an hour’s ramble on the hillside. The view 
thence of Florence is most beautiful—far better 
than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view 
that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing in- 

—82— 


Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing 





to his pictures. That man had a decided feeling 
for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it 
to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us.”’ 

Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldo- 
vinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no com- 
monplace chaplain. He was a member of the res- 
idential colony who had made Florence their home. 
He knew the people who never walked about with 
Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after 
lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had 
never heard of, and saw by private influence gal- 
leries which were closed to them. Living in delicate 
seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renais- 
sance villas on Fiesole’s slope, they read, wrote, 
studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that 
intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of 
Florence which is denied to all who carry in their 
pockets the coupons of Cook. 

Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was 
something to be proud of. Between the two sec- 
tions of his flock he was often the only link, and 
it was his avowed custom to select those of his 
migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them 
a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea 
at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said 
about it yet. But if it did come to that—how Lucy 
would enjoy it! 

A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the 
same. But the joys of life were grouping them- 
selves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager 

—83- 


A Room with a View 





and Miss Bartlett—even if culminating in a resi- 
dential tea-party—was no longer the greatest of 
them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte some- 
what faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe 
was also coming did her thanks become more sin- 
cere. 

‘So we shall be a partie carrée,” said the chap- 
lain. “In these days of toil and tumult one has 
great needs of the country and its message of 
purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, 
the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town.” 

They assented. 

‘This very square—so I am _ told—witnessed 
yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one 
who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola 
there is something portentous in such desecration 
—portentous and humiliating.” 

‘“Fumiliating indeed,” said Miss Bartlett. ‘“‘Miss 
Honeychurch happened to be passing through 
as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of 
it.’ She glanced at Lucy proudly. 

“And how came we to have you here?” asked 
the chaplain paternally. 

Miss Bartlett’s recent liberalism oozed away at 
the question. | 

“Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The 
fault is mine: I left her unchaperoned.”’ 

‘So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch ?”’ 
His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at 
the same time indicated that a few harrowing de- 

—84— 


) 


Ree ee oe a 


Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing 





tails would not be unacceptable. His dark, hand- 
some face drooped mournfully towards her to catch 
her reply. 

“Practically.” 

“One of our pension acquaintances kindly 
brought her home,” said Miss Bartlett, adroitly con- 
cealing the sex of the preserver. 

“For her also it must have been a terrible ex- 
perience. I trust that neither of you was at 
all—that it was not in your immediate proxim- 
iy.” * 

Of the many things Lucy was noticing to-day, 
not the least remarkable was this: the ghoulish 
fashion in which respectable people will nibble after 
blood. George Emerson had kept the subject 
strangely pure. 

“He died by the fountain, I believe,’ was her 
reply. 

‘And you and your frien 

“Were over at the Loggia.” 

“That must have saved you much. You have 
not, of course, seen the disgraceful illustrations 
which the gutter Press— This man is a public 
nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly 
well, and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his 
vulgar views.” 

Surely the vendor of photographs was in league 
with Lucy—in the eternal league of Italy with youth. 
He had suddenly extended his book before Miss 
Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their hands to- 

—85— 


99 





A Room with a View 





gether by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, 
and views. 

‘This is too much!”’ cried the chaplain, striking 
petulantly at one of Fra Angelico’s angels. She 
tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. The 
book it seemed, was more valuable than one would 
have supposed. 

“Willingly would I purchase—” began Miss 
Bartlett. 

‘Ignore him,” said Mr. Eager sharply, and they 
all walked rapidly away from the square. 

But an Italian can never be ignored, least of 
all when he has a grievance. His mysterious per- 
secution of Mr. Eager became relentless; the air 
rang with his threats and lamentations. He ap- 
pealed to Lucy; would not she intercede? He was 
poor—he sheltered a family—the tax on bread. 
He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he 
was dissatisfied, he did not leave them until he had. 
swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether 
pleasant or unpleasant. 

Shopping was the topic that now ensued. Under 
the chaplain’s guidance they selected many hideous 
presents and mementoes—florid little picture-frames 
that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little 
frames, more severe, that stood on little easels, 
and were carven out of oak; a blotting book of 
vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap mosaic 
brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would 
never tell from real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, 

—86— 


9 


Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing 





brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabas- 
ter; St. Peter to match—all of which would have 
cost less in London. 

This successful morning left no pleasant impres- 
sions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened, 
both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew 
not why. And as they frightened her, she had, 
strangely enough, ceased to respect them. She 
doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She 
doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality 
and culture as she had been led to suppose. They 
were tried by some new test, and they were found 
wanting. As for Charlotte—as for Charlotte she 
was exactly the same. It might be possible to be 
nice to her; it was impossible to love her. 

“The son of a labourer; I happen to know it 
for a fact. A mechanic of some sort himself when 
he was young; then he took to writing for the 
Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton.” 

They were talking about the Emersons. 

“How wonderfully people rise in these days!” 
sighed Miss Bartlett, fingering a model of the 
leaning Tower of Pisa. 

“Generally,” replied Mr. Eager, ‘‘one has only 
sympathy for their success. The desire for educa- 
tion and for social advance—in these things there 
is something not wholly vile. There are some 
working men whom one would be very willing to 
see out here in Florence—little as they would make 
or it,” 

—87— 


A Room with a View 





‘Is he a journalist now?” Miss Bartlett asked. 

‘‘He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.” 

He uttered this remark with a voice full of 
meaning, and ended with a sigh. 

“Oh, so he has a wife.” 

‘Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder—yes, I 
wonder how he has the effrontery to look me in 
the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me. 
He was in my London parish long ago. The other 
day in Santa Croce, when he was with Miss Honey- 
church, I snubbed him. Let him beware that he 
does not get more that a snub.” 

“What?” cried Lucy, flushing. 

‘Exposure !” hissed Mr. Eager. 

He tried to change the subject; but in scoring 
a dramatic point he had interested his audience 
more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was full 
of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished 
never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed 
to condemn them on a single word. 

‘To you mean,”’ she asked, “that he is an irre- 
ligious man? We know that already.” 

“Lucy, dear—” said Miss Bartlett, gently re- 
proving her cousin’s penetration. 

“T should be astonished if you knew all. The 
boy—an innocent child at the time—I will exclude. 
God knows what his education and his inherited 
qualities may have made him.” 

“Perhaps,” said Miss Bartlett, “it is something 
that we had better not hear.” | 

—8 8— 


Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing 





“To speak plainly,” said Mr. Eager, “‘it is. I 
will say no more.” 

For the first time Lucy’s rebellious thoughts 
swept out in words—for the first time in her life. 

‘You have said very little.” 

“It was my intention to say very little,’ was his 
frigid reply. 

He gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him 
with equal indignation. She turned towards him 
from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly. 
He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of 
her lips. It was intolerable that she should dis- 
believe him. 

‘Murder, if you want to know,” he cried angrily. 
‘“That man murdered his wife!”’ 

‘How ?” she retorted. 

‘To all intents and purposes he murdered her. 
That day in Santa Croce—did they say anything 
against me?” 

“Not a word, Mr. Eager—not a single word.” 

“Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to 
you. But I suppose it is only their personal charms 
that makes you defend them.” 

“I’m not defending them,” said Lucy, losing her 
courage, and relapsing into the old chaotic methods. 
‘“They’re nothing to me.” 

“How could you think she was defending 
them?” said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited by 
the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly 
listening. 

—89-— 


A Room with a View 





“She will find it difficult. For that man has 
murdered his wife in the sight of God.” 

The addition of God was striking. But the chap- 
lain was really trying to qualify a rash remark. 
A silence followed which might have been impres- 
sive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bart- 
lett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led 
the way into the street. 

“T must be going,” said he, shutting his eyes and 
taking out his watch. 

Miss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and 
spoke with enthusiasm of the approaching drive. 

“Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off ?” 

Lucy was recalled to her manners, and after a 
little exertion the complacency of Mr. Eager was 
restored. 

“Bother the drive!’’ exclaimed the girl, as soon 
as he had departed. ‘‘It is just the drive we had 
arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at all. 
Why should he invite us in that absurd manner? 
We might as well invite him. We are each paying 
for ourselves.” 

Miss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over 
the Emersons, was launched by this remark into 
unexpected thoughts. 

“If that is so, dear—if the drive we and Mr. 
Beebe are going with Mr. Eager is really the same 
as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I 
foresee a sad kettle of fish.” 

“How Pe 


Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing 
“Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish 


to come, too.” 

“That will mean another carriage.” 

“Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. 
She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she 
is too unconventional for him.” 

They were now in the newspaper-room at the 
English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, 
heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to an- 
swer, or at all events to formulate the questions 
rioting in her brain. ‘The well-known world had 
broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic 
city where people thought and did the most extraor- 
dinary things. Murder, accusations of murder, 
a lady clinging to one man and being rude to an- 
other—were these the daily incidents of her streets? 
Was there more in her frank beauty than met the 
eye—the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good 
and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment? 

Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled 
over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious 
to things that did; who could conjecture with ad- 
mirable delicacy “where things might lead to,” but 
apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached 
it! Now she was crouching in the corner trying 
to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose- 
bag which hung in chaste concealment round her 
neck. She had been told that this was the only 
safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be 


broached within the walls of the English bank. As 
—9I— 





A Room with a vee 





she groped she murmured: “Whether it is Mr. 
Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr. Eager 
who forgot when he told us, or whether they have 
decided to leave Eleanor out altogether—which 
they could scarcely do—but in any case we must be 
prepared. It is you they really want; I am only 
asked for appearances. You shall go with the two 
gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. 
A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how 
difficult it is!” ! 

“It is indeed,” replied the girl, with a gravity 
that sounded sympathetic. 

“What do you think about it?’ asked Miss 
Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning 
up her dress. , 

“T don’t know what I think, nor what I want.” 

“Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn’t 
boring you. Speak the word, and, as you know, I 
would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow.” 

“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Lucy, and pondered 
over the offer. 

There were letters for her at the bureau—one 
from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one 
from her mother, delightful as only her mother’s 
letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses 
which had been bought for yellow and were coming 
up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered 
the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi- 
detached cottages which were ruining Summer 
Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. 


Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing 





She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, 
where she was allowed to do everything, and 
where nothing ever happened to her. The road 
up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing- 
room, the view over the Sussex Weald—all hung 
before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the 
pictures in a gallery to which, after much experi- 
ence, a traveller returns. 

“And the news?” asked Miss Bartlett. 

“Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,” 
said Lucy, giving the news that interested her 
least. “Do you know the Vyses?”’ 

“Oh, not that way back. We can never have 
too much of the dear Piazza Signoria.” 

“They're nice people, the Vyses. So clever 
—my idea of what’s really clever. Don’t you 
long to be in Rome?” 

“T die for it!” 

The Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. 
It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glitter- 
ing walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy 
brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a 
presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve 
its severity suggest, not the innocence of child- 
hood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but 
the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus 
and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have 
done or suffered something, and though they are 
immortal, immortality has come to them after 
experience, not before. Here, not only in the 


A Room with a View 


solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, 
or a heroine a god. 

“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. ‘Here’s 
an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-mor- 
row—straight—to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do 
know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. Now, 
you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! 
Do!” 

Miss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied: 

‘Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would be- 
come of your drive in the hills?” 

They passed together through the gaunt beauty 
of the square, laughing over the unpractical sug- 
gestion. 


Chapter VI: The Reverend Arthur 
Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, 
Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, 
Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte 
Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honey- 
church Drive Out in Carriages to See 
a View; Italians Drive Them. 


T was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole 
| that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility 
= and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up 
the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. 
Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt 
had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany 
driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he 
asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she 
was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and 
pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s 
cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unac- 
customed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying 
that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one 
must guard against imposition. But the ladies in- 
terceded, and when it had been made clear that it 
was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed 
to mount beside the god. 

Phaethon at once slipped the left rein over her 


A Room with a View 


head, thus enabling himself to drive with his arm 
round her waist. She did not mind. Mr. Eager, 


who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of 


the indecorous proceeding, and continued his con- 
versation with Lucy. The other two occupants of 
the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss 
Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: 
Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had 
doubled the size of the party. And though Miss 
Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morn- 
ing how the people were to sit, at the critical moment 
when the carriages came round they lost their heads, 
and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bart- 
lett, with George Emerson and, Mr. Beebe, followed 
on behind. 

It was hard on the poor chaplain to have his 
partie carrée thus transformed. Tea at a Renais- 
sance villa, if he had ever meditated it, was now 
impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain 
style about them, and Mr. Beebe, though unre- 
liable, was a man of parts. But a shoddy lady 
writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife 
in the sight of God—they should enter no villa at 
his introduction. 

Lucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and 
nervous amid these explosive ingredients, attentive 
to Mr. Eager, repressive towards Miss Lavish, 
watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately 
asleep, thanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy 
atmosphere of Spring. She looked on the expedi- 

—96- 


A Drive 


tion as the work of Fate. But for it she would 
have avoided George Emerson successfully. In 
an open manner he had shown that he wished to 
continue their intimacy. She had refused, not be- 
cause she disliked him, but because she did not know 
what had happened, and suspected that he did 
know. And this frightened her. 

For the real event—whatever it was—had taken 
place, not in the Loggia, but by the river. To be- 
have wildly at the sight of death is pardonable. 
But to discuss it afterwards, to pass from discus- 
sion into silence, and through silence into sympathy, 
that is an error, not of a startled emotion, but of 
the whole fabric. There was really something 
blameworthy (she thought) in their joint contem- 
plation of the shadowy stream, in the common im- 
pulse which had turned them to the house without 
the passing of a look or word. This sense of 
wickedness had been slight at first. She had nearly 
joined the party to the Torre del Gallo. But each 
time that she avoided George it became more im- 
perative that she should avoid him again. And 
now celestial irony, working through her cousin 
and two clergymen, did not suffer her to leave 
Florence till she had made this expedition with him 
through the hills. 

Meanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse; 
their little tiff was over. 

“So, Miss Honeychurch, you are travelling? 
As a student of art?” 





A Room with a View 





“Oh, dear me, no—oh, no!” 

‘Perhaps as a student of human nature,”’ inter- 
posed Miss Lavish, “like myself?” 

“Oh, no. I am here as a tourist.” 

“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Eager. ‘Are you in- 
deed? If you will not think me rude, we resi- 
dents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little 
—handed about like a parcel of goods from Venice 
to Florence, from Florence to Rome, living herded 
together in pensions or hotels, quite unconscious 
of anything that is outside Baedeker, their one anx- 
iety to get ‘done’ or ‘through’ and go on somewhere 
else. The result is, they mix up towns, rivers, 
palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the 
American girl in Punch who says: ‘Say, poppa, 
what did we see at Rome?’ And the father replies: 
‘Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the 
yaller dog.’ There’s travelling for you. Ha! ha! 
ha!” 3 

“T quite agree,’ said Miss Lavish, who had 
several times tried to interrupt his mordant wit. 
‘The narrowness and superficiality of the Anglo- 
Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace.” 

“Quite so. Now, the English colony at Flor- 
ence, Miss Honeychurch—and it is of considerable 
size, though, of course, not all equally—a few 
are here for trade, for example. But the greater 
part are students. Lady Helen Laverstock is at 
present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention her 
name because we are passing her villa on the left. 

—98— 





A Drive 


No, you can only see it if you stand—no, do not 
stand; you will fall. She is very proud of that 
thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion. One 
might have gone back six hundred years. Some 
critics believe that her garden was the scene of 
The Decameron, which lends it an additional 
interest, does it not?” 

“It does indeed!” cried Miss Lavish. “Tell 
me, where do they place the scene of that wonder- 
ful seventh day?” 

But Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honey- 
church that on the right lived Mr. Someone Some- 
thing, an American of the best type—so rare !— 
and that the Somebody Elses were farther down 
the hill. ‘Doubtless you know her monographs 
in the series of ‘Medieval Byways’? He is work- 
ing at Gemistus Pletho. Sometimes as I take 
tea in their beautiful grounds I hear, over the 
wall, the electric tram squealing up the new road 
with its loads of hot, dusty, unintelligent tourists 
who are going to ‘do’ Fiesole in an hour in order 
that they may say they have been there, and I 
think—TI think—I think how little they think what 
lies so near them.” 

During this speech ‘the two figures on the box 
were sporting with each other disgracefully. 
Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they 
wished to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to 
be able to do so. They were probably the only 
people enjoying the expedition. The carriage 





A Room with a View 





swept with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza 
of Fiesole and into the Settignano road. 

‘Piano! piano!” said Mr. Eager, elegantly 
waving his hand over his head. 

‘Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene,” crooned 
the driver, and whipped his horses up again. 

Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk 
against each other on the subject of Alessio Baldo- 
vinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or 
was he one of its manifestations? The other 
carriage was left behind. As the pace increased 
to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr. 
Emerson was thrown against the chaplain with the 
regularity of a machine. 

‘Piano! piano!” said he, with a martyred look 
at Lucy. 

An extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. 
Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavour- 
ing to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded. 

A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett 
said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses 
were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle 
themselves, the boy was to lose his pourboire, the 
girl was immediately to get down. 

‘She is my sister,” said he, turning round on 
them with piteous eyes. 

Mr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he 
was a liar. Phaethon hung down his head, not 
at the matter of the accusation, but at its manner. 
At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of 

—100— 


; 





A Drive 
stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must 
on no account be separated, and patted them on the 
back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish, 
though unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support 
the cause of Bohemianism. 

“Most certainly I would let them be,” she cried. 
“But I dare say I shall receive scant support. 
I have always flown in the face of the conventions 
all my life. This is what J call an adventure.” 

‘We must not submit,” said Mr. Eager. “I 
knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if 
we were a party of Cook’s tourists.” 

“Surely no!” said, Miss Lavish, her ardour 
visibly decreasing. 

The other carriage had drawn up behind, and 
sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning 
the couple would be sure to behave themselves 





properly. 
“Leave them alone,” Mr. Emerson begged the 
chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. ‘Do we 


find happiness so often that we should turn it off 
the box when it happens to sit there? To be 
driven by lovers— A king might envy us, and if 
we part them it’s more like sacrilege than anything 
[ know.” 

Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard say- 
ing that a crowd had begun to collect. 

Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent 
tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined 
to make himself heard. He addressed the driver 

IOI— 


A Room with a View 





again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep- 
voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and 
boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. 
Eager’s mouth it resembled nothing so much as an 
acid whistling fountain which played ever higher 
and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more 
and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with 
a click. 

‘Signorina!’’? said the man to Lucy, when the 
display had ceased. Why should he appeal to 
Lucy? 

‘‘Signorina!”? echoed Persephone in her glorious 
contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. 
Why? 

For a moment the two girls looked at each 
other. Then Persephone got down from the box. 

‘Victory at last!’ said Mr. Eager, smiting his 
hands together as the carriages started again. 

“Tt is not victory,” said Mr. Emerson. “It is 
defeat. You have parted two people who were 
happy.” | 

Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to 
sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak 
to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and 
took up the matter warmly. He commanded 
Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support 
to his son. 

‘We have tried to buy what cannot be bought 
with money. He has bargained to drive us, and 
he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul.” 

—102— 





A Drive 


Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a per- 
son you have classed as typically British speaks 
out of his character. 

“He was not driving us well,” she said. ‘He 
jolted us.” 

“That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. 
Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He 
would like to throw us out, and most certainly he 
is justified. And if I were superstitious I’d be 
frightened of the girl, too. It doesn’t do to injure 
young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo 
de Medici ?” 

Miss Lavish bristled. 

“Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo 
il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to 
Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his 
diminutive stature ?”’ 

“The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I 
refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line—so 
I heard yesterday—which runs like this: ‘Don’t’ 
go fighting against the Spring.’ ” 

Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for 
erudition. 

‘Non fate guerra al Maggio,” he murmured. 
“*War not with the May’ would render a correct 
meaning.” 

“The point is, we have warred with it. Look.” 
He pointed to the Val d’ Arno, which was visible 
far below them, through the budding trees. “Fifty 
miles of Spring, and we’ve come up to admire 





A Room with a View 





them. Do you suppose there’s any difference be- 
tween Spring in nature and Spring in man? But 
there we go, praising the one and condemning the 
other as improper, ashamed that the same laws 
work eternally through both.” 

No one encouraged him to talk. Presently 
Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop, 
and marshalled the party for their ramble on the 
hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of 
terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between 
them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still 
following its curve, was about to sweep on to a 
promontory which stood out in the plain. It was 
this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with 
bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the 
fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred 
years before. He had ascended it, that diligent 
and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to 
business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Stand- 
ing there, he had seen that view of the Val d’ Arno 
and distant Florence, which he afterwards had 
introduced not very effectively into his work. But 
where exactly had he stood? ‘That was the question 
which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss 
Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything 
problematical, had become equally enthusiastic. 

But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio 
Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have re- 
membered to look at them before starting. And 
the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the 

~104— 


A Drive 


quest. The party sprang about from tuft to tuft 
of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only 
equalled by their desire to go different directions. 
Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss 
Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned 
to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while 
the two clergymen, who were expected to have 
topics in common, were left to each other. 

The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. 
In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to 
Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, 
but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George 
Emerson what his profession was, and he had an- 
swered “the railway.” She was very sorry that she 
had asked him. She had no idea that it would be 
such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked 
him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so 
cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not 
very much hurt at her asking him. 

“The railway!’ gasped Miss Lavish. “Oh, but 
I shall die! Of course it was the railway!” She 
could not control her mirth. ‘‘He is the image of a 
porter—on, on the South-Eastern.” 

“Eleanor, be quiet,” plucking at her vivacious 
companion. “Hush! They'll hear—the Emer- 
sons—”’ 

“I can’t stop. Let me go my wicked way. A 
porter—”’ 

‘Eleanor !”’ 

“I’m sure it’s all right,” put in Lucy. “The 





A Room with a View 





Emersons won’t hear, and they wouldn’t mind if 
- they did.”’ 

Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this. 

‘Miss Honeychurch listening!’’ she said rather 
ciossly. ‘‘Pouf! wouf! You naughty girl! Go 
away !” 

“Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, ['m 
sure.” 

‘I can’t find them now, and I don’t want to 
either.” 

‘Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party.” 

‘‘Please, I’d rather stop here with you.” 

‘“‘No, I agree,’ said Miss Lavish. “It’s like a 
school feast; the boys have got separated from the 
girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to con- 
verse on high topics unsuited for your ear.” 

The girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence 
drew to its close she was only at ease amongst those 
to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one was Miss 
Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. 
She wished she had not called attention to herself; 
they were both annoyed at her remark and seemed 
determined to get rid of her. 

‘How tired one gets,’”’ said Miss Bartlett. “Oh, 
I do wish Freddy and your mother could be 
here.” 

Unselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely 
usurped the functions of enthusiasm. Lucy did not 
look at the view either. She would not enjoy any- 
thing till she was safe at Rome. 

—106— 


A Drive 


“Then sit you down,” said Miss Lavish. ‘‘Ob- 
serve my foresight.” 

With many a smile she produced two of those 
mackintosh squares that protect the frame of the 
tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps. 
She sat on one; who was to sit on the other? 

“Lucy; without a moment’s doubt, Lucy. The 
ground will do for me. Really I have not had 
rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I 
shall stand. Imagine your mother’s feelings if I 
let you sit in the wet in your white linen.’ She 
sat down heavily where the ground looked particu- 
larly moist. “Here we are, all settled delightfully. 
Even if my dress is thinner it will not show so 
much, being brown. Sit down, dear; you are too 
unselfish; you don’t assert yourself enough.”’ She 
cleared her throat. ‘‘Now don’t be alarmed; this 
isn’t a cold. It’s the tiniest cough, and I have had 
it three days. It’s nothing to do with sitting here 
at all.” 

There was only one way of treating the situation. 
At the end of five minutes Lucy departed in search 
of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquished by the 
mackintosh square. 

She addressed herself to the drivers, who were 
sprawling in the carriages, perfuming the cushions 
with cigars. The miscreant, a bony young man 
scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with 
the courtesy of a host and the assurance of a 
relative. 


A Room with a View 





‘Dove?’ said Lucy, after much anxious thought. 

His face lit up. Of course he knew where. 
Not so far either. His arm swept three-fourths 
of the horizon. He should just think he did know 
where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead 
and then pushed them towards her, as if oozing 
with visible extract of knowledge. 

More seemed necessary. What was the Italian 
for ‘‘clergyman’’? 

‘Dove buoni uomini?’”’ said she at last. 

Good? Scarcely the adjective for those noble 
beings! He showed her his cigar. 

‘‘Uno—piu—piccolo,” was her next remark, im- 
plying “Has the cigar been given to you by Mr. 
Beebe, the smaller of the two good men?” 

She was correct as usual. He tied the horse to 
a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted the 
carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded his hat, 
encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than 
a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct her. 
Italians are born knowing the way. It would seem 
that the whole earth lay before them, not as a 
map, but as a chess-board, whereon they continually 
behold the changing pieces as well as the squares. 
Any one can find places, but the finding of people 
is a gift from God. 

He only stopped once, to pick her some great 
blue violets. She thanked him with real pleasure. 
In the company of this common man the world 
was beautiful and direct. For the first time she 

—108— 


A Drive 


felt the influence of Spring. His arm swept the 
horizon gracefully; violets, like other things, ex- 
isted in great profusion there; would she like to 
see them? 

‘Ma buoni uomini.”’ 

He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets 
afterwards. ‘They proceeded briskly through the 
undergrowth, which became thicker and _ thicker. 
They were nearing the edge of the promontory, 
and the view was stealing round them, but the 
brown network of the bushes shattered it into count- 
less pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in 
holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing 
in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a 
twig, was unimportant to her. 

“What is that?” 

There was a voice in the wood, in the distance 
behind them. The voice of Mr. Eager? He 
shrugged this shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is 
sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. 
She could not make him understand that perhaps 
they had missed the clergymen. The view was 
forming at last; she could discern the river, the 
golden plain, other hills. 

“Eccolo!” he exclaimed. 

At the same moment the ground gave way, and 
with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and 
beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a 
little open terrace, which was covered with violets 
from end to end. 





A Room with a View 





“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing 
some six feet above. “Courage and love.” 

She did not answer. From her feet the ground 
sloped sharply into view, and violets ran down in 
rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the 
hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems, 
collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the 
grass with spots of azure foam. But never again 
were they in such profusion; this terrace was the 
well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed 
out to water the earth. 

Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who pre- 
pares, was the good man. But he was not the good 
man that she had expected, and he was alone. 

George had turned at the sound of her arrival. 
For a moment he contemplated her, as one who 
had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in 
her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress 
in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. 
He stepped quickly forward and kissed her. 

Before she could speak, almost before she could 
feel, a voice called, “Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The 
silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett, 
who stood brown against the view. 


—110— 


Chapter VII: They Return 


OME complicated game had been playing up 
and down the hillside all the afternoon. 


What it was and exactly how the players 
had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager 
had met them with a questioning eye. Charlotte 
had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. 
Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to 
find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect 
of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for 
the return home. There was a general sense of 
groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst 
them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried 
these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, 
who presides over social contretemps and unsuc- 
cessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost every one, and 
had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he 
had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lav- 
ish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. 
Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss 
Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon 
had lost the game. 

‘That last fact was undeniable. He climbed on 
to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesy- 
ing the swift approach of bad weather. 

“Let us go immediately,” he told them. ‘The 
signorino will walk.” 

—TIi= 


A Room with a View 





“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. 
Beebe. | 
‘Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He 
would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was 
particularly mortifying for him. He alone had 
played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, 
while the others had used scraps of their intelli- 
gence. He alone had divined what things were, 
and what he wished them to be. WHe alone had 
interpreted the message that Lucy had received 
five days before from the lips of a dying man. 
Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave— 
she could interpret it also. Not so these English. 
They gain knowledge slowly, and perhaps too late. 
The thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, sel- 
dom affect the lives of his employers. He was the 
most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents, but 
infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the 
town, he and his insight and his knowledge would 
trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was 
most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in 
the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. 
But after all, what have we to do with taverns? — 
Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was 
of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought — 
as she journeyed downwards towards the fading 
sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, 
trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. 
They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti. 
Rain and darkness came on together. The two 
—I12- 


They Return 





ladies huddled together under an inadequate par- 
asol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lav- 
ish, who was nervous, screamed from the carriage 
in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. 
Mr. Eager addressed her professionally: 

“Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith. 
If I might say so, there is something almost blas- 
phemous in this horror of the elements. Are we 
seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this 
immense electrical display, is simply called into ex- 
istence to extinguish you or me?”’ 

‘‘No—of course—”’ 

‘Even from the scientific standpoint the chances 
against our being struck are enormous. The steel 
knives, the only articles which might attract the 
current, are in the other carriage. And, in any 
case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walk- 
ing. Courage—courage and faith.” 

Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure 
of her cousin’s hand. At times our need for a 
sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not 
what exactly it signifies or how much we may have 
to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this 
timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than 
she would have got in hours of preaching or cross- 
examination. 

She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, 
half into Florence. 

“Mr. Eager!” called Mr. Beebe. “We want 
your assistance. Will you interpret for us?” 


A Room with a View 





“George!’’ cried Mr. Emerson. “Ask your 
driver which way George went. The boy may lose 
his way. He may be killed.” 

“Go, Mr. Eager,” said Miss Bartlett. ‘No, 
don’t ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go 
and support poor Mr. Beebe; he is nearly de- 
mented.” 

‘‘He may be killed!” cried the old man. ‘He 
may be killed!” 

‘Typical behaviour,” said the chaplain, as he 
quitted the carriage. ‘In the presence of reality 
that kind of person invariably breaks down.” 

“What does he know?” whispered Lucy as soon 
as they were alone. ‘‘Charlotte, how much does 
Mr. Eager know?” 

‘Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But—” 
she pointed at the driver—‘‘he knows everything. 
Dearest, had we better? Shall I?’ She took out 
her purse. “It is dreadful to be entangled with 
low-class people. He saw it all.”” Tapping Phae- 
thon’s back with her guide-book, she said, “Silen- 
zio!”’ and offered him a franc. 

‘Va bene,” he replied, and accepted it. As well 
this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal 
maid, was disappointed in him. | 

There was an explosion up the road. The storm 
had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and 
one of the great supports had fallen. If they had 
not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. 
They chose to regard it as a miraculous preserva- 


They Return 





tion, and the floods of love and sincerity, which 
fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. 
They descended from the carriages; they embraced 
each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past 
unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment 
they realized vast possibilities of good. 

The older people recovered quickly. In the very 
height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly 
or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even 
if they had continued, they would not have been 
caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a 
temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles 
of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the 
dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to 
her cousin. 

“Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me 
again. Only you can understand me. You warned 
me to be careful. And I—I thought I was devel- 
oping.” 

“Do not cry, dearest. Take your time.” 

“T have been obstinate and silly—worse than you 
know, far worse. Once by the river—Oh, but he 
isn’t killed—he wouldn’t be killed, would he?” 

The thought disturbed her repentance. As a 
- matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; 
but she had been near danger, and so she thought 
it must be near to every one. 

“T trust not. One would always pray against 
that.” 

‘He is really—I think he was taken by surprise, 


A Room with a View 


just as I was before. But this time I’m not to 


blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped 
into those violets. No, I want to be really truth- 
ful. I ama little to blame. I had silly thoughts. 
The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all 
blue, and for a moment he looked like some one 
in a book.” 

‘In a book?” 3 

‘‘Heroes—gods—the nonsense of schoolgirls.” 

‘And then?” | 

“But, Charlotte, you know what happened then.”’ 

Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little 
more to learn. With a certain amount of insight 
she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. 
All the way back Lucy’s body was shaken by deep 
siths, which nothing could repress. 

‘“T want to be truthful,” she whispered. “It is 
so hard to be absolutely truthful.” 

‘Don’t be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are 
calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in 
my room.” 

So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. 
It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion 
had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and 
Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe 
had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was 
already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone 
she was sure of—Charlotte, whose exterior con- 
cealed so much insight and love. 

The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost 

—116— 


. 
4 





They Return 


happy through the long evening. She thought not 
so much of what had happened as of how she should 
describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of 
courage, for moments of unreasonable joy, her 
mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid be- 
fore her cousin. And together in divine confidence 
they would disentangle and interpret them all. 

“At last,” thought she, “I shall understand my- 
self. I shan’t again be troubled by things that 
come out of nothing, and mean I don’t know 
what.” 

Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused 
vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment 
of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with 
commendable patience, was listening to a long story 
about lost luggage. When it was over she capped 
it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather 
hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to 
check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It 
was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had re- 
covered her luggage and could say in her usual tone 
of gentle reproach: “Well, dear, I at all events 
am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, 
and I will give a good brush to your hair.” 

With some solemnity the door was shut, and a 
cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett 
said: 

“So what is to be done?” 

She was unprepared for the question. It had 
not occurred to her that she would have to do 

. —1 i} 


A Room with a View 





anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions 
was all that she had counted upon. 

‘What is to be done? A point, dearest, which 
you alone can settle.” 

The rain was streaming down the black win- 
dows, and the great room felt damp and chilly. 
One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers 
close to Miss Bartlett’s toque, which cast monstrous 
and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram 
roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably 
sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She 
lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and 
bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts 
of joy. 

“It has been raining for nearly four hours,” she 
said at last. 

Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. 

‘‘How do you propose to silence him?” 

‘The driver ?”’ 

“My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson.” 

Lucy began to pace up and down the room. 

“TI don’t understand,” she said at last. 

She understood very well, but she no longer 
wished to be absolutely truthful. 

‘‘How are you going to stop him talking about 
oral 

“I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will 
never do.” 

‘T, too, intend to judge him charitably. But 

—118- 


a 


They Return 


unfortunately I have met the type before. They 
seldom keep their exploits to themselves.” 

“Exploits?” cried Lucy, wincing under the hor- 
rible plural. 

‘My poor dear, did you suppose that this was 
his first? ‘Come here and listen to me. I am 
only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you 
remember ‘that day at lunch when he argued with 
Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason 
for liking another?” 

‘Yes,’”’ said Lucy, whom at the time the argu- 
ment had pleased. 

“Well, Iam no prude. There is no need to call 
him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thor- 
oughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplor- 
able antecedents and education, if you wish. But 
we are no farther on with our question. What do 
you propose todo?” 

An idea rushed across Lucy’s brain, which, had 
she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, 
might have proved victorious. 

“I propose to speak to him,” said she. 

Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. 

“You see, Charlotte, your kindness—lI shall never 
forget it. But—as you said—it is my affair. 
Mine and his.” 

“And you are going to implore him, to beg him 
to keep silence?” 

“Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. 


A Room with a View 





Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then 
it is over. I have been frightened of him. But 
now I am not one little bit.” 

“But we fear him for you, dear. You are so 
young and inexperienced, you have lived among such 
nice people, that you cannot realize what men can 
be—how they can take a brutal pleasure in in- 
sulting a woman whom her sex does not protect 
and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I 
had not arrived, what would have happened ?”’ 

“T can’t think,” said Lucy gravely. 

Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett re- 
peat her question, intoning it more vigorously. 

‘What would have happened if I hadn't ar- 
rived ?”’ 

“T can’t think,” said Lucy again. 

‘When he insulted you, how would you have re- 
plied?” 

‘‘T hadn’t time to think. You came.” 

‘Yes, but won’t you tell me now what you would 
have done?” 

“IT should have—’’ She checked herself, and 
broke the sentence off. She went up to the drip- 
ping window and strained her eyes into the dark- 
ness. She could not think what she would have 
done. 

‘‘Come away from the window, dear,” said Miss 
Bartlett. ‘You will be seen from the road.” 

Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin’s power. 
She could not modulate out the key of self-abase- 

—120- 


They Return 


ment in which she had started. Neither of them 
referred again to her suggestion that she should 
speak to George and settle the matter, whatever 
it was, with him. 

Miss Bartlett became plaintive. 

“Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, 
you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. 
Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your 
brother! He is young, but I know that his sister’s 
insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank 
God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left 
some men who can reverence woman.”’ 

As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which 
she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin- 
cushion. ‘Then she blew into her gloves and said: 

“It will be a push to catch the morning train, 
but we must try.” 

“What train?” 

“The train to Rome.” She looked at her gloves 
critically. 

_ The girl received the announcement as easily as 
it had been given. 

“When does the train to Rome go?” 

“At eight.” 

“Signora Bertolini would be upset.” 

“We must face that,” said Miss Bartlett, not 
liking to say that she had given notice already. 

“She will make us pay for a whole week’s pen- 
sion.” 

“T expect she will. However, we shall be much 

—I2I- 





A Room with a View 


more comfortable at the Vyses’ hotel. Isn’t after- 
noon tea given there for nothing?” 

“Yes, but they pay extra for wine.’ 

After this remark she remained motionless and 
silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and 
swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. 

They began to sort their clothes for packing, 
for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch 
the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, be- 
gan to move to and fro between the rooms, more 
conscious of the discomforts of packing by candle- 
light than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was 
practical without ability, knelt by the side of an 
empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with 
books of varying thickness and size. She gave two 
or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her 
back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she 
was growing old. ‘The girl heard her as she entered 
the room, and was seized with one of those 
emotional impulses to which she could never attri- 
bute a cause. She only felt that the candle would 
burn better, the packing go easier, the world be 
happier, if she could give and receive some human 
love. The impulse had come before to-day, but 
never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin’s 
side and took her in her arms. 

Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tender- 
ness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, 
and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not 

—~I122- 


They Return 





love her, but needed her to love. For it was in 
ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: 

“Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?” 

Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by 
bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett 
meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her 
embrace a little, and she said: 

“Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I 
have anything to forgive!” 

“You have a great deal, and I have a very great 
deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much 
I vex you at every turn.” 

“But no—” 

Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that 
of the prematurely aged martyr. 

“Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together 
is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have 
known it would not do. You want some one 
younger and stronger and more in sympathy with 
you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned— 
only fit to pack and unpack your things.” 

‘‘Please—”’ 

‘My only consolation was that you found people 
more to your taste, and were often able to leave 
me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what 
a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict 
them on you more than was necessary. You had 
your own way about these rooms, at all events.” 

“You mustn’t say these things,” said Lucy softly. 

—123- 


A Room with a View 





She still clung to the hope that she and Char- 
lotte loved each other, heart and soul. They con- 
tinued to pack in silence. 

“IT have been a failure,’ said Miss Bartlett, as 
she struggled with the straps of Lucy’s trunk in- 
stead of strapping her own. ‘‘Failed to make you 
happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She 
has been so generous to me; I shall never face her 
again after this disaster.”’ 

‘But mother will understand. It is not your 
fault, this trouble, and it isn’t a disaster either.” 

‘It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never 
forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right 
had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?” 

“Every right.” 

‘‘When I was here for your sake? If I have © 
vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected — 
you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, — 
when you tell her.”’ 

Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the 
situation, said: 

‘Why need mother hear of it?” 

‘But you tell her everything ?” 

‘“T suppose I do generally.” 

“T dare not break your confidence. There is some- 
thing sacred init. Unless you feel that it is a thing 
you could not tell her.” 

The girl would not be degraded to this. 

“Naturally I should have told her. But in case 
she should blame you in any way, I promise I will 

—124- 


They Return 


not. I am very willing not to. I will never speak 
of it either to her or to any one.” 

Her promise brought the long-drawn interview 
toasudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly 
on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her 
to her own room. 

For a moment the original trouble was in the 
background. George would seem to have behaved 
like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view 
which one would take eventually. At present she 
neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not 
pass judgment. At the moment when she was about 
to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, 
ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; 
Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sigh- 
ing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, 
who had really been neither pliable nor humble 
nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great 
artist; for a time—indeed, for years—she had been 
meaningless, but at the end there was presented 
_ to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, love- 
less world in which the young rush to destruction 
until they learn better—a shamefaced world of 
precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but 
which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge 
from those who have used them most. 

Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong 
which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic 
advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her 
craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is 





A Room with a View 





not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose © 
herself without due consideration and precaution 
against rebuff. And such a wrong may react dis- 
astrously upon the soul. 

The door-bell rang, and she started to the shut- 
ters. Before she reached them she _ hesitated, 
turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, 
though she saw some one standing in the wet be- 
low, he, though he looked up, did not see her. 

To reach his room he had to go by hers. She 
was still dressed. It struck her that she might 
slip into the passage and just say that she would 
be gone before he was up, and that their extra- 
ordinary intercourse was over. 

Whether she would have dared to do this was 
never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bart- 
lett opened her own door, and her voice said: 

‘I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, 
Mr. Emerson, please.”’ 

Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bart- 
lett said: ‘“Good-night, Mr. Emerson.” 

His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; 
the chaperon had done her. work. 

Lucy cried aloud: ‘It isn’t true. It can’t all 
be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to 
grow older quickly.” 

Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. 

“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the 
rest you can get.” 

In the morning they left for Rome. 

—126~ 








Chapter VIII: Medieval 


HE drawing-room curtains at Windy 
Corner had been pulled to meet, for the 
carpet was new and deserved protection 
from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, 
reaching almost to the ground, and the light that 
filtered through them was subdued and varied. A 
poet—none was present—might have quoted, ‘‘Life 
like a dome of many coloured glass,” or might have 
compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered 
against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without 
was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, 
though, visible, was tempered to the capacities of 
man. 
Two pleasant people sat in the room. One— 
a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of 
anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which 
lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced 
in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day 
was hot and the print small, and the human frame 
fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing 
a letter, did continually read out to him what she 
had written. And continually did she rise from 
her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of 
light fell across the carpet, and make the remark 
that they were still there. 


A Room with a View 





‘Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was 
Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I tell you [’m getting 
fairly sick.” 

‘For goodness’ sake go out of my drawing-room, 
then?” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure 
her children of slang by taking it literally. 

Freddy did not move or reply. 

“I think things are coming to a head,” she ob- 
served, rather wanting her son’s opinion on the 
situation if she could obtain it without undue sup- 
plication. 

‘Time they did.” 

“T am glad that Cecil is asking her this once 
more.” 

“It’s his third go, isn’t it?” 

‘Freddy I.do call the way you talk unkind.” 

‘I didn’t mean to be unkind.” ‘Then he added: — 
“But I do think Lucy might have got this off her © 
chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage — 
things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly be- 
fore, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now. — 
Over the whole thing—I can’t explain—I do feel © 
so uncomfortable.” | 

“Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!” 

“T feel—never mind.”’ 

He returned to his work. | 

“Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. — 
I said: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse’—” | 

‘Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter.” — 





Medieval 


“T said: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked 
my permission about it, and I should be delighted, 
if Lucy wishes it. But—’”’’ She stopped read- 
ing. “I was rather amused at Cecil asking my per- 
mission at all. He has always gone in for uncon- 
ventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. 
When it comes to the point, he can’t get on with- 
out me.” 

“Nor me.” 

“Vou ti 

Freddy nodded. 

‘What do you mean?” 

‘He asked me for my permission also.” 

She exclaimed: ‘How very odd of him!” 

“Why so?” asked the son and heir. ‘Why 
shouldn’t my permission be asked ?” 

“What do you know about Lucy or girls or any- 
thing? What ever did you say?” 

“I said to Cecil, “Take her or leave her; it’s no 
business of mine!’ ” 

‘What a helpful answer!’ But her own answer, 
though more normal in its wording, had been to 
the same effect. 

‘“‘The bother is this,’ began Freddy. 

Then he took up his work again, too shy to say 
what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went 
back to the window. 

“Freddy, you must come. There they still 
are !”’ 





-13I-— 


A Room with a View 





“T don’t see you ought to go peeping like that.” 

‘Peeping like that! Can’t I look out of my 
own window?” 

But she returned to the writing-table, observing, 
as she passed her son, “Still page 322?” Freddy 
snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief 
space they were silent. Close by, beyond the cur- 
tains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation 
had never ceased. 

‘The bother is this: I have put my foot in it 
with Cecil most awfully.” He gave a nervous 
gulp. ‘‘Not content with ‘permission,’ which I did 
give—that is to say, I said, ‘I don’t mind’—well, 
not content with that, he wanted to know whether 
I wasn’t off my head with joy. He practically put 
it like this: Wasn’t it a splendid thing for Lucy 
and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? 
And he would have an answer—he said it would 
strengthen his hand.” 

“T hope you gave a careful answer, dear.” 

‘“T answered ‘No’” said the boy, grinding his 
teeth. “There! Fly into a stew! I can’t help 
it— I had to say it. I had to say no. He ought 
never to have asked me.”’ 

‘Ridiculous child!” cried his mother. “Yiou think 
you’re so holy and truthful, but really it’s only 
abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man 
like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything 
you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare 
you say no?” 

—132— 


a 


] 
; 
; 
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| 
4 
F 
; 





Medieval 


“Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no 
when I couldn’t say yes. I tried to laugh as if I 
didn’t mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, 
and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my 
foot’s in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a 
man do some work.”’ 

“No,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of 
one who has considered the subject, ‘I shall not 
keep quiet. You know all that has passed between 
them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and 
yet you deliberately insult him, and ‘try to turn him 
out of my house.” 

“Not a bit!” he pleaded. ‘I only let out I 
didn’t like him. I don’t hate him, but I don’t like 
him. What I mind is that he’ll tell Lucy.” 

He glanced at the curtains dismally. | 

“Well, I like him,” said Mrs. Honeychurch. 
“I know his mother; he’s good, he’s clever, he’s 
rich, he’s well connected— Oh, you needn’t kick 
the piano! He’s well connected—I’ll say it again 
if you like: he’s well connected.” She paused, as 
if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dis- 
satisfied. She added: ‘‘And he has beautiful 
manners.” 

“T liked him till just now. I suppose it’s having 
him spoiling Lucy’s first week at home; and it’s 
also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing.”’ 

‘Mr. Beebe?” said his mother, trying to conceal 
her interest. “I don’t see how Mr. Beebe comes 


aoe i 3? 


In 





—133- 


A Room with a View 





“You know Mr. Beebe’s funny way, when you 
never quite know what he means. He said: ‘Mr. 
Vyse is an ideal bachelor.’ I was very cute. I 
asked him what he meant. He said ‘Oh, he’s 
like me—better detached.’ I couldn’t make him 
say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil 
has come after Lucy he hasn’t been so pleasant, at 
least—I can’t explain.” 

‘You never can, dear. But I can. You are 
jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting 
you silk ties.” 

The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy 
tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain 
there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too 
much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil 
made one talk in one’s own way. This tired one. 
Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow 
who would never wear another fellow’s cap. Un- 
aware of his own profundity, Freddy checked him- 
self. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike 
a man for such foolish reasons. 

“Will this do?” called his mother. “ ‘Dear Mrs. 
Vyse,—Cecil has just asked my permission about 
it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.’ 
Then I put in at the top, ‘and I have told Lucy so.’ 
I must write the letter out again—‘and I have told 
Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in 
these days young people must decide for them- 
selves.’ I said that because I didn’t want Mrs. 
Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for 

= Gide 





Medieval 


lectures and improving her mind, and all the time 
a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid’s 
dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric 
light. She keeps that flat abominably—” 

“Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in 
a flat, or in the country ?”’ 

“Don’t interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? 
Oh yes—‘Young people must decide for themselves. 
I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells 
me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome 
when he asked her first.’ No, I'll cross that last 
bit out—it looks patronizing. Ill stop at ‘because 
she tells me everything.’ Or shall I cross that out, 
too?” 

“Cross it out, too,” said Freddy. 

Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. 

“Then the whole things runs: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse, 
—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and 
I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have 
told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and 
in these days young people must decide for them- 
selves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because 
she tells me everything. But I do not know—’ ”’ 

“Look out!” cried Freddy. 

The curtains parted. 

Cecil’s first movement was one of irritation. He 
couldn’t bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in 
the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he 
gave the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging 
down their poles. Light entered. There was re- 





A Room with a View 





vealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas, 
with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic 
seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured 
by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built 
on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. 
Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the 
edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the 
air above the tremulous world. 

Cecil entered. 

Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be 
at once described. He was medieval. Like a 
Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders 
that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, 
and a head that was tilted a little higher than the 
usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious 
saints who guard the portals of a French cathe- 
dral. Well educated, well endowed, and not de- 
ficient physically, he remained in the grip of a cer- 
tain devil whom the modern world knows as self- 
consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer 
vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue 
implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies 
fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe 
meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, 
perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine 
‘Cecil wearing another fellow’s cap. 

Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing- 
table and moved towards her young acquaintance. 

“Oh, Cecil!’ she exclaimed—‘‘oh, Cecil, do tell 
me!” 


—136— 


3 
‘ 
; 
: 
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my 





Medieval 


“IT promessi sposi,” said he. 

They stared at him anxiously. 

“She has accepted me,” he said, and the sound 
of the thing in English made him flush and smile 
with pleasure, and look more human. 

“IT am so glad,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, while 
Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chem- 
icals. ‘They wished that they also knew Italian, 
for our phrases of approval and of amazement are 
so connected with little occasions that we fear to 
use them on great ones. We are obliged to become 
vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural rem- 
iniscences. 

“Welcome as one of the family!” said Mrs. 
Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. 
“This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you 
will make our dear Lucy happy.” 

‘I hope so,” replied the young man, shifting his 
eyes to the ceiling. 

“We mothers—” simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, 
and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, 
bombastic—all the things she hated most. Why 
could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the 
middle of the room, looking very cross and almost 
handsome? 

“T say, Lucy!” called Cecil, for conversation 
seemed to flag. 

Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the 
lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was 
going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw 


—l 37- 





A Room with a View 


her brother’s face. Her lips parted, and she took 
him in her arms. He said, “Steady on!” 

‘‘Not a kiss for me?” asked her mother. 

Lucy kissed her also. 

‘Would you take them into the garden and tell 
Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?” Cecil suggested. 
‘And I'd stop here and tell my mother.” 

‘We go with Lucy?” said Freddy, as if taking 
orders. 

“Yes, you go with Lucy.” 

They passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched 
them cross the terrace, and descend out of sight 
by the steps. They would descend—he knew their 
ways—past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn 
and the dahlia-bed, until they reached the kitchen- 
garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes 
and the peas, the great event would be discussed. 

Smiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and re- 
hearsed the events that had led to such a happy 
conclusion. 

He had known Lucy for several years, but only 
as a commonplace girl who happened to be musi- 
cal. He could still remember his depression that 
afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible 
cousin fell on him out of the blue, and demanded 
to be taken to St. Peter’s. That day she had 
seemed a typical tourist—shrill, crude, and gaunt 
with travel. But Italy worked some marvel in her. 
It gave her light, and—which he held more pre- 
cious—it gave her shadow. Soon he detected in 

—138- 


Medieval 


her a wonderful reticence. She was like a woman 
of Leonardo da Vinci’s, whom we love not so much 
for herself as for the things that she will not tell 
us. The things are assuredly not of this life; no 
woman of Leonardo’s could have anything so vulgar 
as a “story.” She did develop most wonderfully 
day by day. 

So it happened that from patronjzing civility 
he had slowly passed if not to passion, at least to 
a profound uneasiness. Already at Rome he had 
hinted to her that they might be suitable for each 
other. It had touched him greatly that she had 
not broken away at the suggestion. Her refusal 
had been clear and gentle; after it—as the horrid 
phrase went—she had been exactly the same to 
him as before. Three months later, on the margin 
of Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked 
her again in bald, traditional language. She re- 
minded him of a Leonardo more than ever; her 
sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic 
rock; at his words she had turned and stood be- 
tween him and the light with immeasurable plains 
behind her. He walked home with her unashamed, 
feeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things 
that really mattered were unshaken. 

So now he had asked her once more, and, clear 
and gentle as ever, she had accepted him, giving no 
coy reasons for her delay, but simply saying that 
she loved him and would do her best to make him 
happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she 





A Room with a View 





had counselled the step; he must write her a long 
account. 

Glancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy’s 
chemicals had come off on it, he moved to the 
writing table. There he saw ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse,” 
followed by many erasures. He recoiled without 
reading any more, and after a little hesitation 
sat down elsewhere, and pencilled a note on his 
knee. 

Then he lit another cigarette, which did not seem 
quite as divine as the first, and considered what 
might be done to make Windy Corner drawing- 
room more distinctive. With that outlook it should 
have been a successful room, but the trail of Tot- 
tenham Court Road was upon it; he could almost 
visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and 
Messrs. Maple arriving at the door and deposit- 
ing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that writ- 
ing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch’s 
letter. He did not want to read that letter—his 
temptations never lay in that direction; but he 
worried about it none the less. It was his own 
fault that she was discussing him with his mother; 
he had wanted her support in his third attempt to 
win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter 
who they were, agreed with him, and so he had 
asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had 
been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for 
Freddy— 

‘He is only a boy,” he reflected. “I represent 


Medieval 


all that he despises. Why should he want me for 
a brother-in-law ?”’ 

The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but 
he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; 
and perhaps—he did not put it very definitely— 
he ought to introduce her into more congenial 
circles as soon as possible. 

“Mr. Beebe!” said the maid, and the new rector 
of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once 
started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy’s praise 
of him in her letters from Florence. 

Cecil greeted him rather critically. 

“T’ve come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose 
that I shall get it?” 

“I should say so. Food is the thing one does 
get here— Don’t sit in that chair; young Honey- 
church has left a bone in it.” 

Pi tui t” 

“T know,” said Cecil. “I know. I can’t think 
why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it.” 

For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples’ 
furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken 
together, they kindled the room into the life that 
he desired. 

“I’ve come for tea and for gossip. Isn’t this 
news?” 

“News? I don’t understand you,” said Cecil. 
“News?” _ 

Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different 
nature, prattled forward. 

-14I- 





A Room with a View 





“IT met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have 
every reason to hope that I am first in the field. 
He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!” 

‘Has he indeed?” said Cecil, trying to recover 
himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he 
fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a 
gentleman would refer to his engagement in a 
manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, 
and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might 
be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. 

“Unpardonable question! To have stopped a 
week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie 
and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been 
run up opposite the church! Ill set Mrs. Honey- 
church after you.” 

‘T’m shockingly stupid over local affairs,’ said 
the young man languidly. “I can’t even remember 
the difference between a Parish Council and a Local 
Government Board. Perhaps there is no differ- 
ence, or perhaps those aren’t the right names. I 
only go into the country to see my friends and to 
enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy 
and London are the only places where I don’t feel 
to exist on sufferance.”’ 

Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of 
Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. 

“Let me see, Mr. Vyse—I forget—what is your 
profession?” 

“T have no profession,” said Cecil. “It is an- 
other example of my decadence. My attitude— 

—142- 





Medieval 


quite an indefensible one—is that so long as I am 
no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I 
like. I know I ought to be getting money out of 
people, or devoting myself to things I don’t care 
a straw about, but somehow, I’ve not been able 
to begin.” 

“You are very fortunate,” said Mr. Beebe. 
“It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of 
leisure.” 

His voice was rather parochial, but he did not 
quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, 
as all who have regular occupation must feel, that 
others should have it also. 

“I am glad that you approve. I daren’t face 
the healthy person—for example, Freddy Honey- 
church.” 

“Oh, Freddy’s a good sort, isn’t he?” 

‘“‘Admirable. The sort who has made England 
what she is.” 

Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day 
of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He 
tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. 
Beebe’s mother, an old lady for whom he had no 
particular regard. Then he flattered the clergy- 
man, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened 
attitude towards philosophy and science. 

“Where are the others?” said Mr. Beebe at 
last. “I insist on extracting tea before evening 
Service. 

“I suppose Anne never told them you were here. 


-143- 





A Room with a View 





In this house one is so coached in the servants the 
day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she 
begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and 
kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of 
Mary—I forget the faults of Mary, but they are 
very grave. Shall we look in the garden?” 

‘“T know the faults of Mary. She leaves the 
dust-pans standing on the stairs.” 

‘The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, 
simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small.” 

They both laughed, and things began to “go 
better. 

“The faults of Freddy—’” Cecil continued. 

‘Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother 
can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the 
faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumer- 
able.” 

‘She has none,” said the young man, with grave 
sincerity. 

“I quite agree. At present she has none.” 

‘‘At present?” 

‘T’m not cynical. I’m only thinking of my pet 
theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem 
reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and 
live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will 
be wonderful in both. ‘The water-tight compart- 
ments in her will break down, and music and life 
will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically 
good, heroically bad—too heroic, perhaps, to be 
good or bad.”’ 





Medieval 


Cecil found his companion interesting. 

‘And at present you think her not wonderful 
as far as life goes?” | 

“Well, I must say I’ve only seen her at Tun- 
bridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and 
at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she’ 
has been away. You saw her, didn’t you, at Rome 
and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you 
knew her before. No, she wasn’t wonderful in 
Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she 
would be.”’ 

“In what way?” 

Conversation had become agreeable to them, 
and they were pacing up and down the terrace. 

“I could as easily tell you what tune she’ll play 
next. There was simply the sense that she had 
found wings, and meant to use them. I can show 
you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss 
Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the 
string. Picture number two: the string breaks.” 

The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made 
afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At 
the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the 
string himself. 

“But the string never broke?”’ 

“No. I mightn’t have seen Miss Honeychurch 
rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bart- 
fett fall.” 

“It has broken now,” said the young man in 
low, vibrating tones. 





—145- 


A Room with a View 





Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, 
ludicrous, contemptible ways of announcing an en- 
gagement this was the worst. He cursed his love 
of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star 
and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? 

‘Broken? What do you mean?” 

‘IT meant,” said Cecil stiffly, “that she is going 
to marry me.” 

The clergyman was conscious of some bitter dis- 
appointment which he could not keep out of his 
voice. 

‘I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea 
you were intimate with her, or I should never have 
talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, 
you ought to have stopped me.’ And down the 
garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disap- 
pointed. 

Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to 
apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. 
Was this the reception his action would get from 
the world? Of course, he despised the world as a 
whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost 
a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the 
successive particles of it which he encountered. 

Occasionally he could be quite crude. 

‘T am sorry I have given you a shock,” he said 
dryly. “I fear that Lucy’s choice does not meet — 
with your approval.” 

“Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. 
I know Miss Honeychurch only a little as time 

—146— 





Medieval 


goes. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have discussed her 
so freely with any one; certainly not with you.” 

“You are conscious of having said something in- 
discreet ?”” 

Mr. Beebe. pulled himself together. Really, 
Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most. 
tiresome positions. He was driven to use the pre- 
rogatives of his profession. 

“No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw 
at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood 
must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly 
enough that she might take some momentous step. 
She has taken it. She has learnt—you will let 
me talk freely, as I have begun freely—she has 
learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some 
people will tell you, that our earthly life provides.” 
It was now time for him to wave his hat at the 
approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. 
“She has learnt through you,” and if his voice 
was still clerical, it was now also sincere; “‘let it 
be your care that her knowledge is profitable to 
her.” 

“Grazie tante!”’ said Cecil, who did not like 
parsons. 

“Have you heard?” shouted Mrs. Honeychurch 
as she toiled up the sloping garden. ‘Oh, Mr. 
Beebe, have you heard the news?” 

Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wed- 
ding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accom- 
plished fact. 





—147- 


A Room with a View 





‘Indeed I have!” he cried. He looked at Lucy. 
In her presence he could not act the parson any 
longer—at all events not without apology. “Mrs. 
Honeychurch, I’m going to do what I am always 
supposed to do, but generally I’m too shy. I want 
to invoke every kind of blessing on them, grave 
and gay, great and small. I want them all their 
lives to be supremely good and supremely happy 


as husband and wife, as father and mother. And 


now I want my tea.” 

‘You only asked for it just in time,” the lady 
retorted. “How dare you be serious at Windy 
Corner?” 

He took his tone from her. There was no more 
heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify 
the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None 
of them dared or was able to be serious any more. 

An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner 
or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state 
of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of 
their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might 
again be critical. But in its presence and in the 
presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. 
It has a strange power, for it compels not only 


the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallelL— 


to compare one great thing with another—is the 

power over us of a temple of some alien creed. 

Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the 

most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints 
—148- 








Medieval 


and gods are not ours, we become true believers, 
in case any true believer should be present. 

So it was that after the gropings and the mis- 
givings of the afternoon they pulled themselves 
together and settled down to a very pleasant tea- 
party. If they were hypocrites they did not know 
it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting 
and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each 
plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated 
them greatly. They could not lag behind that 
smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked 
the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. 
Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as 
the ‘“Fiasco”’—family honoured pun on fiancé. 
Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised 
well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, 
for whom the temple had been built, they also 
joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest 
worshippers should, for the disclosure of some 
holier shrine of joy. 


—149- 


Chapter IX: Lucy as a Work of Art 


FEW days after the engagement was an- 
A nounced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and 

her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in 
the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show 
people that her daughter was marrying a presentable 
man. 

Cecil was more than presentable; he looked dis- 
tinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim 
figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair 
face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People 
congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I be- 
lieve, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she 
introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some 
stuffy dowagers. 

At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee 
was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy 
feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of 
the sort, but dragged her indoors to have the frock 
treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone 
some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. 
When they returned he was not as pleasant as he 
had been. | 


“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he 


asked when they were driving home. 
—150— 


en ae 


ee ee ere ee a ae 


ie 


ee ee. 


Lucy As a Work of Art 


“Oh, now and then,” said Lucy, who had rather 
enjoyed herself. 

“Is it typical of country society ?” 

“T suppose so. Mother, would it be?” 

“Plenty of society,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who 
was trying to remember the hang of one of the 
dresses. 

Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil 
bent towards Lucy and said: 

‘‘To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, 
portentous.”’ 

“T am so sorry that you were stranded.” 

“Not that, but the congratulations. It is so dis- 
gusting, the way an engagement is regarded as 
public property—a kind of waste place where every 
outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those 
old women smirking!” 

“One has to go through it, I suppose. ‘They 
won't notice us so much next time.” 

“But my point is that their whole attitude is 
wrong. An engagement—horrid word in the first 
place—is a private matter, and should be treated as 
such.” 

Yet the smirking old women, however wrong in- 
dividually, were racially correct. The spirit of the 
generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in 
the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it 
promised the continuance of life on earth. To 
Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different 
; —151— 





A Room with a View 





—personal love. ‘Hence Cecil’s irritation and 
Lucy’s belief that his irritation was just. 

‘How tiresome!” she said. ‘“‘Couldn’t you have 
escaped 'to tennis?” 

“T don’t play tennis—at least, not in public. 
The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of 
me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that 
of the Inglese Italianato.” 

“Inglese Italianato?”’ 

“Eun diavolo incarnato! You know the 
proverb?” 

She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a 
young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome 
with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, 
had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness 
which he was far from possessing. 

“Well,” said he, “I cannot help it if they do 
disapprove of me. ‘There are certain irremovable 
barriers between myself and them, and I must 
accept them.” 

‘We all have our limitations, I suppose,” said 
wise Lucy. 

‘Sometimes they are forced on us, though,” said 
Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not 
quite understand his position. 

“How?” 

“Tt makes a difference doesn’t it, whether we 
fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out 
by the barriers of others?” 


Lucy As a Work of Art 


She thought a moment, and agreed that it did 
make a difference. 

‘Difference ?” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly 
alert. “I don’t see any difference. Fences are 
fences, especially when they are in the same place.” 

‘We were speaking of motives,” said Cecil, on 
whom the interruption jarred. 

“My dear Cecil, look here.” She spread out her 
_ knees and perched her card-case on her lap. “This 
is me. That’s Windy Corner. ‘The rest of the 
pattern is the other people. Motives are all very 
well, but the fence comes here.”’ 

“We weren’t talking of real fences,’ 
laughing. 

“Oh, I see, dear—poetry.”’ 

She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why 
Lucy had been amused. 

“TI tell you who has no ‘fences,’ as you call them,” 
she said, ‘‘and that’s Mr. Beebe.”’ 

‘A parson fenceless would mean a parson de- 
fenceless.”’ 

Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but 
quick enough to detect what they meant. She 
missed Cecil’s epigram, but grasped the feeling that 
prompted it. 

“Don’t you like Mr. Beebe?” she asked thought- 
fully. | | 
“T never said so!”’ he cried. “I consider him far 
above the average. I only denied—’ And he swept 


—153- 





’ 


said Lucy, 


A Room with a View 





off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. 

‘Now, a clergyman that I do hate,” said she, 
wanting to say something sympathetic, ‘‘a clergyman 
that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, 
is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. 
He was truly insincere—not merely the manner un- 
fortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and 
he did say such unkind things.” 

‘What sort of things?” 

‘There was an old man at the Bertolini whom 
he said had murdered his wife.” 

“Perhaps he had.” 

“No in 

“Why ‘no’? 

‘‘F1e was such a nice old man, I’m sure.” 

Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. 

‘Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager 
would never come to the point. He prefers it — 
vague—said the old man had ‘practically’ murdered — 
his wife—had murdered her in the sight of God.” 

“Hush, dear!’’ said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. 

“But isn’t it intolerable that a person whom we're 
told to imitate should go round spreading slander? 
It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old 
man was dropped. People pretended he was 
vulgar, but he certainly wasn’t that.” 

‘Poor old man! What was his name?” 

“Harris,” said Lucy glibly. 

‘“Let’s hope that Mrs. Harris there warn’t no 
sich person,” said her mother. 


—I54- 


Lucy As a Work of Art 


Cecil nodded intelligently. 

“Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?” 
he asked. 

“IT don’t know. I hate him. I’ve heard him lec- 
ture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a 
petty nature. I hate him.” 

“My goodness gracious me, child!’ said Mrs. 
IHoneychurch. “You'll blow my head off! What- 
ever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil 
to hate any more clergymen.” 

He smiled. ‘There was indeed something rather 
incongruous in Lucy’s moral outburst over Mr. 
Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo 
on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint 
to her that not here lay her vocation; that a wo- 
man’s power and charm reside in mystery, not in 
muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vital- 
ity: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that 
she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her 
flushed face and excited gestures with a certain 
approval. He forebore to repress the sources of 
youth. 

Nature—simplest of topics, he thought—lay 
around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep 
lakes of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted 
the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turn- 
pike road. ‘The outdoor world was not very fam- 
iliar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in 
a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth 


155 





A Room with a View 





twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green 
of the larch. 

“T count myself a lucky person,” he concluded. 
‘When I’m in London I feel I could never live out 
of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same 
about the country. After all, I do believe that 
birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful 
things in life, and that the people who live amongst 
them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases 
out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. The 
country gentleman and the country labourer are 
each in their way the most depressing of compan- 
ions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with 
the workings of Nature which is denied to us of 
the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch ?” 

Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had 
not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed 
on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and 
determined not to say anything interesting again. 


Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was. 


wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the 
result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. 
It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties 
of an August wood. 

“Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain 
height,’ ’’ he quoted, and touched her knee with his 
own. 


She flushed again and said: “What height?” 


“ “Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, 
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang), 
phi 56- 


iM ota 


Lucy As a Work of Art 


In height and in the splendour of the hills?’ 





Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate 
clergymen no more. What’s this place?” 

“Summer Street, of course,’ said Lucy, and 
roused herself. 

The woods had opened to leave space for a 
sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined 
it on two sides, and the upper and third side was 
occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, 
with a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s 
house was near the church. In height it scarcely 
exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were 
at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The 
scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine 
and centre of a leisured world, and was marred 
only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had 
competed with Cecil’s engagement, having been ac- 
quired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that 
Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. 

“Cissie’ was the name of one of these villas, 
“Albert” of the other. These titles were not only 
_ picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, 
but appeared a second time on the porches, where 
they followed the semicircular curve of the en- 
_ trance arch in block capitals. ‘‘Albert’’ was inhab- 
ited. His tortured garden was bright with gera- 
niums and lobelias and polished shells. His little 
windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. 
“Cissie’”’ was to let. Three notice-boards, belong- 
ing to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and an- 


—157- 


A Room with a View 





nounced the not surprising fact. Her paths were 
already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn 
was yellow with dandelions. 

‘The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechani- 
cally. ‘‘Summer Street will never be the same 
again.” 

As the carriage passed, “Cissie’s’” door opened, 
and a gentleman came out of her. 

‘Stop!’ cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the 
coachman with her parasol. ‘“Here’s Sir Harry. 
Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things 
down at once!”’ 

Sir Harry Otway—who need not be described 
—came to the carriage and said: 

‘Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I 
really can’t turn out Miss Flack.” 

‘‘Am I not always right? She ought to have 
gone before the contract was signed. Does she 
still live rent free, as she did in her nephew’s time ?” 

“But what can I do?” He lowered his voice. 
‘An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bed- 
ridden.” 

‘Turn her out,” said Cecil bravely. 

Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mourn- 
fully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack’s 
intentions, and might have bought the plot before 
building commenced: but he was apathetic and dil- 
atory. He had known Summer Street for so many 
years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. 
Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, 

—158— 


Lucy As a Work of Art 


and the apparition of red and cream brick began to 
rise, did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, 
the local builder,—a most reasonable and respect- 
ful man—who agreed that tiles would have made 
a more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates 
were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, 
about the Corinthian columns which were to cling 
like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, 
saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the 
facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted 
that a column, if possible, should be structural as 
well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the 
columns had been ordered, adding, ‘and all the 
capitals different—one with dragons in the foliage, 
another approaching to the Ionian style, another 
introducing Mrs. Flack’s initials—every one dif- 
ferent.” For he had read his Ruskin. He built his 
villas according to his desire; and not until he had 
inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did 
Sir Harry buy. 

This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the 
knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honey- 
church’s carriage. He had failed in his duties to 
the country-side, and the country-side was laughing 
at him as well. He had spent money, and yet 
Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he 
could do now was to find a desirable tenant for 
“‘Cissie’—-some one really desirable. — 

“The rent is absurdly low,” he told them, ‘and — 
perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an 


—I 59- 





A Room with a View 


awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class, 
and too small for any one the least like ourselves.”’ 

Cecil had been hesitating whether he should de- 
spise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising 
them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruit- 
ful. 

“You ought to find a tenant at once,” he said 
maliciously. “It would be a perfect paradise for 
a bank clerk.” 

“Exactly!” said Sir Harry excitedly. ‘That is 
exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the 
wrong type of people. The train service has im- 
proved—a fatal improvement, to my mind. And 
what are five miles from a station in these days of 
bicycles ?”’ 

‘“‘Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,” said 
Lucy. 

Cecil, who had his full share of medieval mis- 
chievousness, replied that the physique of the 
lower middle classes was improving at a most appal- 
ling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their 
harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. 

“Sir Harry! she exclaimed, “I have an idea. 
How would you like spinsters?” 

‘““My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you 
know any such?” | 

“Yes; I met them abroad.” 

‘“‘Gentlewomen ?”’ he asked tentatively. 

‘Yes, indeed, and at the present moment home- 
less. I heard from them last week—Miss Teresa 

—160-— 


Lucy As a Work of Art 


and Miss Catharine Alan. I’m really not joking. 
They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows 
them, too. May I tell them to write to you?” 

“Indeed you may!” he cried. ‘Here we are 
with the difficulty solved already. How delight- 
ful it is! Extra facilities—please tell them they 
shall have extra facilities, for I shall have 
no agents’ fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling 
people they have sent me! One woman, when I 
wrote—a tactful letter, you know—asking her to 
explain her social position to me, replied that she 
would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares 
about that! And several references I took up 
were most unsatisfactory—people swindlers, or not 
respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a 
good deal of the seamy side this last week. ‘The de- 
ceit of the most promising people. My dear 
msucy, the deceit!”’ 

She nodded. 

“My advice,” put in Mrs. Honeychurch, “is to 
have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gen- 
tlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me 
from people who have seen better days, and bring 
heirlooms with them that make the house smell 
stuffy. It’s a sad thing, but I’d far rather let to 
some one who is going up in the world than to some 
lone who has come down.”’ 

“T think I follow you,” said Sir Harry; “but 
it is, as you say, a very sad thing.” 

“The Misses Alan aren’t that!’ cried Lucy. 

-161-— 





A Room with a View 





“Yes, they are,” said Cecil. ‘I haven’t met them 
but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addi- 
tion to the neighbourhood.” 


‘Don’t listen to him, Sir Harry—he’s tiresome.” — 


‘Tt’s I who am tiresome,’ he replied. “I 
oughtn’t to come with my troubles to young people. 
But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will 
only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite 
true, but no real help.” 

“Then may I write to my Misses Alan?” 

“Please!” 


But his eye wavered when Mrs, Honeychurch — 


exclaimed: 


‘Beware! They are certain to have canaries. — 
Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out 


through the bars of the cages and then the mice 
come. Beware of women altogether. Only let 
to a man.” 

‘“Really—” he murmured gallantly, though he 
saw the wisdom of her remark. 

‘Men don’t gossip over tea-cups. If they get 


drunk, there’s an end of them—they lie down com- 
fortably and sleep it off. If they’re vulgar, they 


somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn’t spread 


so. Give me a man—of course, provided he’s 


clean.”’ 


Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil en- | 


yoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even 


the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much 
—162- 


i ali Ta) 


Lucy As a Work of Art 


distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, 
if she had time, should descend from the carriage 
and inspect ‘‘Cissie”’ for herself. She was delighted. 
Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in 
such a house. Domestic arrangements always at- 
tracted her, especially when they were on a small 
scale. 

Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her 
‘mother. . 

‘Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, ‘‘what if we two 
walk home and leave you?” 

“Certainly!” was her cordial reply. 

Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get 
rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, 
‘Aha! young people, young people!” and then hast- 
ened to unlock the house. 

“Hopeless vulgarian!”’ exclaimed Cecil, almost 
before they were out of earshot. 

pe@h, Cecil!” 

“I can’t help it. It would be wrong not to 
loathe that man.” 

‘He isn’t clever, but really he is nice.” 

‘No, Lucy he stands for all that is bad in country 
life. In London he would keep his place. He 

would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would 

give brainless dinner parties. But down here he 
acts the little god with his gentility, and his patron- 
age, and his sham esthetics, and every one—even 
your mother—is taken in.” 


ott 63-— 





A Room with a View 





‘All that you say is quite true,’ said Lucy, 
though she felt discouraged. “I wonder whether— 
whether it matters so very much.” 

“It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence 
of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I 
feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant 
in that villa—some woman so really vulgar that 
he'll notice it. Gentlefolks! Ugh! with his bald 
head and retreating chin! But let’s forget him.” 

This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil dis- 
liked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guar- 
antee was there that the people who really mat- 
tered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. 
Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, 
and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, 
“It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy”? And 
what would she reply? Further than Freddy she 
did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She 
could only assure herself that Cecil had known 
Freddy some time, and that they had always got on 
pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few 
days, which was an accident, perhaps. 

‘Which way shall we go?” she asked him. 

Nature—simplest of topics, she thought—was 
around them. Summer Street lay deep in the 
woods, and she had stopped where a footpath di- 
verged from the highroad. 

“Are there two ways?” 

‘‘Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we’re got 
up smart.” 

—164— 


Lucy As a Work of Art 


“Td rather go through the wood,” said Cecil, 
with that subdued irritation that she had noticed in 
him all the afternoon. ‘Why is it, Lucy, that you 
always say the road? Do you know that you have 
never once been with me in the fields or the wood 
since we were engaged?” 

“Haven't I? The wood, then,’ said Lucy, 
startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he 
would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her 
in doubt as to his meaning. 

She led the way into the whispering pines, and 
sure enough he did explain before they had gone a 
dozen yards. 

“IT had got an idea-—I dare say wrongly—that 
you feel more at home with me in a room.” 

“A room?” she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. 

“Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a 
road. Never in the real country like this.” 

“Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have 
never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I 
was a kind of poetess sort of person.” 

“T don’t know that you aren’t. I connect 
you with a view—a certain type of view. Why 
shouldn’t you connect me with a room?” 

She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: 

“Do you know that you're right? I do. I 
must be a poetess after all. When I think of you 
it’s always asina room. How funny!” 

To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. 

“A drawing-room, pray? With no view?” 


—I 65= 





A Room with a View 


‘Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?” 


“T’d rather,” he said reproachfully, “that you 


connected me with the open air.” 

She said again, ‘Oh, Cecil, whatever do you 
mean?” | 

As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook 
off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led 
him further into the wood, pausing every now and 
then at some particularly beautiful or familiar com- 
bination of the trees. She had known the wood 
between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever 
since she could walk alone; she had played at losing 
Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; 
and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none 
of its charm. 

Presently they came to a little clearing among 
the pines—another tiny green alp, solitary this 
time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. 

She exclamed, ‘“The Sacred Lake!” 

‘Why do you call it that?” 


‘“T can’t remember why. I suppose it comes out 


of some book. It’s only a puddle now, but you see 


’ 


that stream going through it? Well, a good deal — 
of water comes down after heavy rains, and can’t get 


away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and 


beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He 


is very fond of it.” 
‘‘And you?” | 
He meant, “‘Are you fond of it?’ But she an- 
—166— 


Lucy As a Work of Art 


swered dreamily, “I bathed here, too, till I was 
found out. Then there was a row.” 

At another time he might have been shocked, 
for he had depths of prudishness within him. But 
now, with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he 
was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He 
looked at her as she stood by the pool’s edge. She 
was got up smart, as she phrased it, and she re- 
minded him of some brilliant flower that has no 
leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a 
world of green. 

‘Who found you out?” 

“Charlotte,” she murmured. ‘She was stopping 
with us. Charlotte—Charlotte.” 

“Poor girl!” 

She smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from 
which hitherto he had shrank, now appeared prac- 
tical. 

“Lucy!” 

“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,’ 
reply. 

“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I 
have never asked before.”’ 

At the serious note in his voice she stepped 
frankly and kindly towards him. 

“What, Cecil?” 

“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn 
when you agreed to marry me—” 

He became self-conscious and kept glancing 


~TI 67- 





b] 


was her 


A Room with a View 





round to see if they were observed. His courage 
had gone. 

“Ves -? 

“Up to now I have never kissed you.” 

She was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most 
indelicately. 

‘‘No—more you have,” she stammered. 

‘Then I ask you—may I now?” 

“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. 
I can’t run at you, you know.” 

At that supreme moment he was conscious of 
nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inade- 
quate. She gave such a business-like lift to her 
veil. As he approached her he found time to wish 
that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold 
pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened be- 
tween them. 

Such was the embrace. He considered, with 
truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should 
believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility 
and consideration and all the other curses of a re- 
fined nature. Above all, it should never ask for 
leave where there is a right of way. Why could 
he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any 
young man behind the counter would have done? 
He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flower- 
like by the water, he rushed up and took her in his 
arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered 
him ever after for his manliness. For he believed 
that women revere men for their manliness. 


—168- 


Lucy As a Work of Art 


They left the pool in silence, after this one salu- 
tation. He waited for her to make some remark 
which should show him her inmost thoughts. At 
last she spoke, and with fitting gravity. 

‘Emerson was the name, not Harris.” 

“What name?” 

“The old man’s.” 

‘What old man?” 

“That old man I told you about. The one Mr.. 
Eager was so unkind to.” 

He could not know that this was the most inti- 
mate conversation they had ever had. 





—169- 


Chapter X: Cecil as a Humourist 


HE society out of which Cecil proposed to 

rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid 
affair, yet it was more splendid than her 
antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a pros- 
perous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a 
speculation at the time the district was opening up, 
and, falling in love with his own creation, had ended 
by living there himself. Soon after his marriage, 
the social atmosphere began to alter. Other houses 
were built on the brow of that steep southern slope, 
and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, 
and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. 
Most of these houses were larger than Windy Cor- 
ner, and were filled by people who came, not from 
the district, but from London, and who mistook 
the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indi- 
genous aristocracy. He was inclined to be fright- 
ened, but his wife accepted the situation without 
either pride or humility. “I cannot think what 
people are doing,” she would say, “but it is ex- 
tremely fortunate for the children.” She called 
everywhere; her calls were returned with en- 
thusiasm, and by the time people found out that 
she was not exactly of their milieu, they liked her, 


Cecil As a Humourist 





and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honey- 
church died, he had the satisfaction—which few 
honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family 
rooted in the best society obtainable. 

The best obtainable. Certainly many of the im- 
migrants were rather dull, and Lucy realized this 
more vividly since her return from Italy. Hither- 
to she had accepted their ideals without questioning 
—their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, 
their dislike of paper-bags, orange-peel, and broken 
bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak 
with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she 
troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant 
people, with identical interests and identical foes. 
In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Out- 
side it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying 
to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the 
pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern 
hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses 
may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this con- 
ception of life vanished. Her senses expanded; she 
felt that there was no one whom she might not 
get to like, that social barriers were irremovable, 
doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over 
them just as you jump into a peasant’s olive-yard 
in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She 
returned with new eyes. 

So did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not 
to tolerance, but to irritation. He saw that the 
local society was narrow, but, instead of saying, 

-171I- 


A Room with a View 


‘Does that very much matter?” he rebelled, and 
tried to substitute for it the society he called broad. 
He did not realize that Lucy had consecrated her 
environment by the thousand little civilities that 
create a tenderness in time, and that though her 
eyes saw its defects, her heart refused to despise it 
entirely. Nor did he realize a more important 
point—that if she was too great for this society, she 
was too great for all society, and had reached the 
stage where personal intercourse would alone satisfy 
her. A rebel she was, but not of the kind he under- 
stood—a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling- 
room, but equality beside the man she loved. For 
Italy was offering her the most priceless of all pos- 
sessions—her own soul. 

Playing bumble-puppy with [Minnie Beebe, niece 
to the rector, and aged thirteen—an ancient and 
most honourable game, which consists in striking 
tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over 
the net and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. 
Honeychurch; others are lost. The sentence is 
confused, but the better illustrates Lucy’s state of 
mind, for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the 
same time. 

“Oh, it has been such a nuisance—first he, then 
they—no one knowing what they wanted, and every 
one so tiresome.”’ 


“But they really are coming now,” said Mr. 


Beebe. “I wrote to Miss Teresa a few days ago— 
she was wondering how often the butcher called, and 
—172- 


Cecil As a Humourist 





my reply of once a month must have impressed her 
favourably. They arecoming. I heard from them 
this morning.”’ 

“T shall hate those Miss Alans!’ Mrs. Honey- 
church cried. “Just because they’re old and silly 
one’s expected to say ‘How sweet!’ I hate their 
‘if’-ing and ‘but’-ing and ‘and’-ing. And poor Lucy 
—serve her right—worn to a shadow.” 

Mr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and 
shouting over the tennis-court. Cecil was absent— 
one did not play bumble-puppy when he was there. 

“Well, if they are coming— No, Minnie, not 
Saturn.” Saturn was a tennis-ball whose skin was 
partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was en- 
circled by a ring. “If they are coming, Sir Harry 
will let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he 
will cross out the clause about whitewashing the 
ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in 
the fair wear and tear one.—That doesn’t count. 
I told you not Saturn.” 

“Saturn’s all right for bumble-puppy,” cried 
Freddy, joining them. ‘Minnie, don’t you listen to 
her.” 

“Saturn doesn’t bounce.” 

“Saturn bounces enough.” 

“No, he doesn’t.” 

‘“Well, he bounces better than the Beautiful White 
Devil.” 

“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch. 


“But look at Lucy—complaining of Saturn, and 


—873= 


A Room with a View 





all the time’s got the Beautiful White Devil in her 
hand, ready to plug it in. ‘That’s right, Minnie, 
go for her—get her over the shins with the rac- 
quet—get her over the shins!”’ 

Lucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from 
her hand. 

Mr. Beebe picked it up, and said: “The name 
of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please.” But 
his correction passed unheeded. 

Freddy possessed to a high degree the power of 
lashing little girls to fury, and in half a minute he 
had transformed Minnie from a well-mannered 
child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house 
Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of enter- 
taining news, he did not come down to impart it, in 
case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bore 
necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated 
the physical violence of the young. How right it 
was! Sure enough it ended in a cry. 

“I wish the Miss Alans could see this,’’ observed 
Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was nursing the in- 
jured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by her 
brother. 

‘Who are the Miss Alans?” Freddy panted. 

“They have taken Cissie Villa.” 

“That wasn’t the name—” 

Here his foot slipped, and they all fell most 
agreeably on to the grass. An interval elapses. 

‘“Wasn’t what name?” asked Lucy, with her 
brother’s head in her lap. 


+174— 


Neb asey - ee I, P 


Cecil As a Humourist 





“Alan wasn’t the name of the people Sir Harry’s 
tet) to.” 

“Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about 
a? 

“Nonsense yourself! I’ve this minute seen him. 
He said tome: ‘Ahem! Honeychurch,’ ’’—Freddy 
was an indifferent mimic—“ ‘ahem! ahem! I have 
at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.’ I 
said, ‘Hooray, old boy!’ and slapped him on the 
back.” 

“Exactly. The Miss Alans?” 

“Rather not. More like Anderson.” 

“Oh, good gracious, there isn’t going to be an- 
other muddle!’ Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed. 
“Do you notice, Lucy, I’m always right? I said 
don’t interfere with Cissie Villa. I’m always right. 
I’m quite uneasy at being always right so often.” 

“It’s only another muddle of Freddy’s. Freddy 
doesn’t even know the name of the people he pre- 
tends have taken it instead.” 

“Yes, I do. I’ve got it. Emerson.” 

“What name?” 

‘Emerson. I'll bet you anything you like.” 

“What a weathercock Sir Harry is,” said Lucy 
quietly. “I wish I had never bothered over it at 
all.” 

Then she lay on her back and gazed at the cloud- 
less sky. Mr. Beebe, whose opinion of her rose 
daily, whispered to his niece that that was the 
proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong. 


—I7 55 


A Room with a View 


Meanwhile the name of the new tenants had 
diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from the contempla- 
tion of her own abilities. 

‘Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emer- 
sons they are?” 

‘I don’t know whether they're any Emersons,” 
retorted Freddy, who was democratic. Like his 
sister and like most young people, he was natu- 
rally attracted by the idea of equality, and the 
undeniable fact that there are different kinds of 
Emersons annoyed him beyond measure. 

‘T trust they are the right sort of person. All 
right, Lucy’—she was sitting up again—"l see 
you looking down your nose and thinking your 
mother’s a snob. But there is a right sort and a 
wrong sort, and it’s affectation to pretend there 
161 t2 

‘Emerson’s a common enough name,’ Lucy 
remarked. 


She was gazing sideways. Seated on a prom- — 


ontory herself, she could see the pine-clad prom- 


ontories descending one beyond another into 


the Weald. ‘The further one descended the gar-— 


den, the more glorious was this lateral view. 


‘I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I — 


trusted they were no relations of Emerson the phil- © 


osopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that sat- — 


isfy you?” 


‘Oh, yes,” he grumbled. “And you will be — 
satisfied, too, for they’re friends of Cecil; so”—_ 


—176- 


Cecil As a Humourist 





with elaborate irony—‘“you and the other country 
families will be able to call in perfect safety.” 

“Cecil?” exclaimed Lucy. 

“Don’t be rude, dear,” said his mother placidly. 
“Lucy, don’t screech. It’s a new bad habit you’re 
getting into.”’ 

“But has Cecil—” 

‘Friends of Cecil’s,” he repeated, “‘ ‘and so really 
dee-sire-rebel. Ahem! MHoneychurch, I have just 
telegraphed to them.’ ”’ | 

She got up from the grass. 

It was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized 
with her very much. While she believed that her 
snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry 
Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She 
might well “‘screech’”’ when she heard that it came 
partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease— 
something worse than a tease: he took a malicious 
pleasure in thwarting people. The clergyman, 
knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with 
_ more than his usual kindness. 

When she exclaimed, ‘‘But Cecil’s Emersons— 
they can’t possibly be the same ones—there is 
_ that—” he did not consider that the exclamation 
was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of divert- 
ing the conversation while she recovered her com- 
posure. He diverted it as follows: 

“The Emersons who were at Florence, do you 
mean? No, I don’t suppose it will prove to be- 
them. It is probably a long cry from them to 


—177= 


A Room with a View 


friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, 
the oddest people! The queerest people! For 
our part we liked them, didn’t we?” He appealed 
to Lucy. “There was a great scene over some 
violets. ‘They picked violets and filled all the 
vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who 
have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little 
ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be 
one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear 
sister loves flowers,’ it began. They found the 
whole room a mass of blue—vases and jugs—and 
the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so 
beautiful.’ It is all very difficult. Yes, I always 
connect those Florentine Emersons with violets.” 





‘‘Fiasco’s done you this time,’ remarked Freddy, — 


not seeing that his sister’s face was very red. She 
could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe saw it, and 
continued to divert the conversation. 

‘“These particular Emersons consisted of a father 
and a son—the son a goodly, if not a good young 


man; not a fool, I fancy, but very immature— ~ 


pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the 
father—such a sentimental darling, and people de- 
clared he had murdered his wife.” 

In his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have 
repeated such gossip, but he was trying to shelter 
Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated any rub- 
bish that came into his head. 

‘Murdered his wife?” said Mrs. Honeychurch. 

—178— 


a ee a 


PO ee a Ne ee ee “a 


Cecil As a Humourist 





“Lucy, don’t desert us—go on playing bumble- 
puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have 
been the oddest place. ‘That’s the second murderer 
I’ve heard of as being there. Whatever was Char- 
lotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really must ask 
Charlotte here some time.” 

Mr. Beebe could recall no second murderer.. He 
suggested that his hostess was mistaken. At the 
hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectly 
sure that there had been a second tourist of whom 
the same story had been told. The name escaped 
her. What was the name? Oh, what was the 
name? She clasped her knees for the name. 
Something in Thackeray. She struck her matronly 
forehead. 

Lucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in. 

“Oh, don’t go!” he cried, and tried to catch her 
by the ankles. 

“T must go,” she said gravely. ‘Don’t be silly. 
You always overdo it when you play.” 

As she left them her mother’s shout of “Harris!” 
shivered the tranquil air, and reminded her that 
she had told a lie and had never put it right. Such 
a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and 
made her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil’s, 
with a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto 
truth had come to her naturally. She saw that 
for the future she must be more vigilant, and be— 
absolutely truthful? Well, at all events, she must 


-179- 


’ 


A Room with a View 


not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still 
flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would 
soothe her, she was sure. 

“Cecil!” 

“Hullo!’? he called, and leant out of the smok- 
ing-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I 
was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear- 
gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even 
I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. 
George Meredith’s right—the cause of Comedy and 
the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even 
I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie 
Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You'll 
forgive me when you hear it all.” 

He looked very attractive when his face was — 
bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings 
at once. ‘ 

“T have heard,” she said. ‘Freddy has told us. 
Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. — 
Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing! 
Certainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, — 
and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But 
you oughtn’t to tease one so.” ' i 

“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, — 
the whole joke is to come! Come here.” But — 
she remained standing where she was. ‘“‘Do you ~ 
know where I met these desirable tenants? In the 
National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother ~ 
last week.” : 

—180— 





Cecil As a Humourist 





“What an odd place to meet people!” she said 
nervously. “I don’t quite understand.” 

“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. 
They were admiring Luca Signorelli—of course, 
quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they 
refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.” 

“But, Cecil—” 

He proceeded hilariously. 

“In the course of conversation they said that 
they wanted a country cottage—the father to live 
there, the son to run down for week-ends. I 
thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ 
and I took their address and a London reference, 
found they weren't actual blackguards—it was 
great sport—and wrote to him, making out—”’ 

“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. Dve probably met 
them before—” 

He bore her down. 

“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes 
a snob. ‘That old man will do the neighbourhood 
a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with 
his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him 
a lesson some time. No, Lucy, the classes ought 
to mix, and before long you'll agree with me. 
There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of 
things. I believe in democracy—’”’ 

“No, you don’t,’ she snapped. “You don’t 
know what the word means.” ; 

He stared at her, and felt again that she had 

—181— 


A Room with a View 





failed to be Leonardesque. ‘‘No, you don’t!” 
Her face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago. 

“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you 
very much indeed. You had no business to undo 
my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look 
ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but 
do you realize that it is all at my expense? I con- 
sider it most disloyal of you.” 

She left him. 

“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows. 

No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As 
long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends 
were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not 
minded. He perceived that these new tenants 
might be of value educationally. He would tole- 
rate the father and draw out the son, who was 
silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and 
of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner. 


—182— 





Chapter XI: In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Ap- 
pointed Flat 


r 4 HE Comic Muse, though able to look after 
7 her own interests, did not disdain the as- 
sistance of Mr. .Vyse. His idea of bring- 
ing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as 
decidedly good, and she carried through the 
negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway 
signed the agreement, met Mr. Emerson, who was 
duly disillusioned. ‘The Miss Alans were duly of- 
fended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom 
they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe 
planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and 
told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on 
them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample 
was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. 
Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his 
head, to be forgotten, and to die. 

Lucy—to descend from bright heaven to earth, 
whereon there are shadows because there are hills 
—Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but set- 
tled after a little thought that it did not matter 
‘in the very least. Now that she was engaged, the 
Emersons would scarcely insult her and were wel- 
come to come into the neighbourhood. And Cecil 
was welcome to bring whom he would into the 

—183-— 


A Room with a View 





neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to 
bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, 
as I say, this took a little thinking, and—so illogi- 
cal are .girls—the event remained rather greater 
and rather more dreadful than it should have 
done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now 
fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while 
she was safe in the London flat. . 

‘‘Cecil—Cecil darling,” she whispered the even- 
ing she arrived, and crept into his arms. 

Cecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that 
the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last 
she longed for attention, as a woman should, and 
looked up to him because he was a man. 

‘So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured. 

“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I 
should do without you.” 

Several days passed. Then she had a letter 
from Miss Bartlett. 

A coolness had sprung up between the two 
cousins, and they had not corresponded since they 
parted in August. The coolness dated from what 
Charlotte would call ‘‘the flight to Rome,” and in 
Rome it had increased amazingly. For the com- 
panion who is merely uncongenial in the medieval 
world becomes exasperating in the classical. Char- 
lotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a 
sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in the Baths 


of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could ~ 


continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join 
aa 84— 





In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat 


the Vyses—Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her 
mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan— 
and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite 
used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing 
happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, 
was even increased when she opened the letter and 
read as follows. It had been forwarded from 


Windy Corner. 





‘“TUNBRIDGE WELLS, 
“September. 
“Dearest Lucia, 

“T have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been 
bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call 
would be welcome. /Puncturing her tire near Summer 
Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone 
in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a 
door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come 
out. He said his father had just taken the house. He said 
he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood(?). 
He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear 
Lucy, I am much worried, and [I advise you to make 
a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, 
and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, 
etc. That was a great misfortune, and I dare say you 
have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I re- 
member how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am 
very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I 
warned you. 

“Believe me, 
“Your anxious and loving cousin, 
“CHARLOTTE.” 


as 8 5— 


A Room with a View 





Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows: 


“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S. W. 
“DEAR CHARLOTTE, 

“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson 
forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not 
to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for 
not being always with me. I have kept that promise, and 
cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and 
Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they 
are respectable people—which I do think—and the reason 
that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he 
had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. 
I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must 
see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard 
I ‘had complained of them, they would think themselves 
of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like 
the old father, and look forward to seeing him again. As 
for the son, I am sorry for him when we meet, rather than 
for myself. ‘They are known to Cecil, who is very well 
and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married 
in January. 

“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for 
I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do 
not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one 
opens my letters. 

“Yours affectionately, 
“L. M. HoNEYcHURCH,” 


Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense 
of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret 
is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin 
closeted with a great thing which would destroy 

—186— 


— a a, oe ee ae 


leer at 


| 
| 
¥ 
N, 
' 





In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat 


Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing 
which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested 
the former. Perhaps she was right. It had be- 
come a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy 
would have told her mother and her lover ingen- 
uously, and it would have remained a little thing. 
“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few 
weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when 
they were laughing about some beautiful lady who 
had smitten his heart at school. But her body 
behaved so ridiculously that she stopped. 

She and her secret stayed ten days longer in the 
deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were 
to know so well later on. It did her no harm, 
Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, 
while society itself was absent on the golf-links or 
the moors. ‘The weather was cool, and it did her 
no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse man- 
aged to scrape together a dinner-party consisting 
entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. 
The food was poor, but the talk had a witty wear- 
iness that impressed the girl. One was tired of 
everything, it seemed. One launched into enthus- 
iasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself 
up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere 
the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared 
equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career 
would estrange her a little from all that she had 
loved in the past. 

The grandchildren asked her to play the piano. 

~187— 


A Room with a View 





She played Schumann. “Now some Beethoven,” 
called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the 
music had died. She shook her head and played 
Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably 
magical, It broke; it was resumed broken, not 
marching once from the cradle to the grave. ‘The 
sadness of the incomplete—the sadness that is 
often Life, but should never be Art—throbbed 
in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of 
the audience throb. Not thus had she played on 
the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and ‘Too 
much Schumann” was not the remark that Mr. 
Beebe had passed to himself when she returned. 
When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone 
to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing- 
room, discussing her little party with her son. Mrs. 
Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like 


many another’s, had been swamped by London, for 


it needs a strong head to live among many people. 
The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and 
she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too 
many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she 
was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one 
son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd. 

‘(Make Lucy one of us,” she said, looking round 
intelligently at the end of each sentence, and strain- 
ing her lips apart until she spoke again. “Lucy is 
becoming wonderful—wonderful.”’ 

‘Her music always was wonderful.” 

“Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurcham 

—188— 


j 


In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat 


taint—most excellent Honeychurches, but you know 
what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, 
or asking one how the pudding is made.” 

“Italy has done it.” 

“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the mu- 
seum that represented Italy to her. “It is just pos- 
sible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January. 
She is one of us already.” 

“But her music!” he exclaimed. ‘The style of 
her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an 
idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right 
for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do 
you know, mother, I shall have our children edu- 
cated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest 
country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for 
subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to 
London. I don’t believe in these London educa- 
tions—” He broke off, remembering that he had 
had one himself, and concluded, ‘At all events, 
not for women.” 

“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and 
processed to bed. 

As she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of night- 
mare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring 
for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it 
kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting up- 
right with her hand on her cheek. 

“T am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.” 

“Bad dreams?” 

“Just dreams.” 

-—189— 


A Room with a View 





The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very 
distinctly: “You should have heard us talking 
about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. 
Dream of that.” 

Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek 
with her hand. Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, 
whom the cry had not awoke, snored. Darkness 
enveloped the flat. 


—190— 


Chapter XII: ‘Twelfth Chapter 


T was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant 
| after abundant rains, and the spirit of youth 
dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. 
All that was gracious triumphed. As the motor- 
cars passed through Summer Street they raised only 
a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by 
the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches 
or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s 
amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy 
leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. 

“Suppose we go and hinder those new people 
opposite for a little.” 

“Mm.” : 

“They might amuse you.” 

Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, 
suggested that the new people might be feeling a 
bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved 
in. 

“T suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. 
Beebe. ‘““They are worth it.’ Unlatching the 
gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to 
Cissie Villa. ‘‘Hullo!’’ he cried, shouting in at the 
open door, through which much squalor was visible. 

A grave voice replied, ‘‘Hullo!” 

“T’ve brought some one to see you.” 

-IQI= 


A Room with a View 





“Tl be down in a minute.” | 

The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which 
the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. 
Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The 
sitting-room itself was blocked with books. 

‘Are these people great readers?’ Freddy whis- 
pered. “Are they that sort?” 

“T fancy they know how to read—a rare accom- 
plishment. What jhave they got? Byron. Ek- 
actly. Md Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. 
The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gib- 
bon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um— 
um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. 
Well, I suppose your generation knows its own 
business, Honeychurch.”’ 

“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awe- 
struck tones. 

On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an 
amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust 
all enterprises that require new clothes.”’ 

“T know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m cer- 
tain that’s the old man’s doing.” 

‘How very odd of him!” 

‘Surely you agree?” 

But Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that 
one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture. 

“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling 
about the room. ‘“‘Giotto—they got that at Flor- 
ence, I’ll be bound.” 

‘The same as Lucy’s got.” 


Twelfth Chapter 


“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy Lon- 
don?” 

“She came back yesterday.” 

“T suppose she had a good time?” 

“Yes, very,’ said Freddy, taking up a book. 
“She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”’ 

“That’s good hearing.” 

“T wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.” 

Mr. Beebe ignored the remark. 

“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but 
it'll be very different now, mother thinks. She will 
read all kinds of books.” 

‘So will you.” 

“Only medical books. Not books that you can 
talk about afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Ital- 
ian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There 
are all kinds of things in it that we have never no- 
—ticed. Cecil says—” 

‘What on earth are those people doing upstairs? 
Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.” 

George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the 
room without speaking. 

“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neigh- 

_ bour.” 
Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of 
youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was 
friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face 
wanted washing. At all events he greeted him 
with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.” 

“Oh, all right,’’ said George, impassive. 

-193= 





\ 


A Room with a View 


Mr. Beebe was highly entertained. 

‘‘ ‘How d’ ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have 
a bathe,’”’ he chuckled. ‘‘That’s the best conver- 
sational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid 
it will only act between men. (Can you picture a 
lady who has been introduced to another lady by a 
third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? 
Come and have a bathe’? Alnd yet you will tell 
me that the sexes are equal.”’ 

‘T tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, 
who had been slowly descending the stairs. ‘“‘Good- 
afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be 
comrades, and George thinks the same.” 

‘We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergy- — 
man inquired. | 

‘The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, 
still descending, “which you place in the past, is — 
really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no — 
longer despise our bodies.” 

Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden 
anywhere. 

‘Tn this—not in other things—we men are ahead. ~ 
_ We despise the body less than women do. But not 
until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.” 

“T say, what about this bathe?’ murmured © 
Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that 
was approaching him. : 

“I believed in a return to Nature once. But — 
how can we return to Nature when we have neyer ~ 

—194- : 
a 
os 


Twelfth Chapter 


been with her? To-day, I believe that we must 
discover Nature. After many conquests we shall 
attain simplicity. It is our heritage.” 

“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister 
you will remember at Florence.” 

“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and 
that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad 
to hear that your sister is going to marry. Mear- 
riage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, 
for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most 
kind. He met us by chance in the National Gal- 
lery, and arranged everything about this delightful 
house. ‘Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry 
Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, 
and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards 
the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, 
this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a 
glorious country, Honeychurch!” 

“Not a bit!’? mumbled Freddy. ‘I must —that is 
to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on 
you later on, my mother says, I hope.” 

“Call, my lad? Who taught us that drawing- 
room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Lis- 
ten to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glori- 
ous country.” 

Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. 

“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or 
_ your son will return our calls before ten days have 
elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the 


—195- 





A Room with a View 





ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped 
you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count 
that they are going to bathe this afternoon.” 

‘Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you 
dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring 
back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do 
you good. George has been working very hard at 
his office. I can’t believe he’s well.” 

George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhal- | 
ing the peculiar smell of one who has handled fur- © 
niture. 

‘Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked 
him. “It is only a pond, don’t you know. I dare 
say you are used to something better.” 

‘““Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.” 

Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, 
and led the way out of the house and into the pine- — 
woods. How glorious it was! For a little time — 
the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispens- — 
ing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and — 
they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken ~ 
and the trees. : 

Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who conte ’ 
not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the — 
expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his — 
companions would utter a word. He spoke of — 
Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or — 
dissenting with slight but determined gestures that — 
were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops — 
above their heads. | 


—196- 





Twelfth Chapter 

“And what a coincidence that you should meet 
Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all 
the Pension Bertolini down here?” 

“IT did not. Miss Lavish told me.” 

‘When I was a young man, I always meant to 
write a ‘History of Coincidence.’ ” 

No enthusiasm. 

“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are 
much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn’t 
purely coincidentality that you are here now, when 
one comes to reflect.”’ 

To his relief, George began to talk. 

Dat 1a, 1 have reflected... It is Fate. Every- 
thing is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, 
drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn 
apart. The twelve winds blow us—we settle noth- 
ing—’”’ 

“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergy- 
man. ‘Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: at- 
tribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t do 
this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now [ll cross- 
question you. Where did you first meet Miss 
Honeychurch and myself?” 

pitaly.”’ 

‘And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going 
to marry Miss Honeychurch ?” 

“National Gallery.” 

“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and 
yet you talk of coincidence and Fate! You natur- 
ally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our 





A Room with a View 





friends. ‘This narrows the field immeasurably, and 
we meet again in it.” 

‘Tt is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. 
“But you can call it Italy if it makes you less un- 
happy.” 

Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment 
of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the 
young, and had no desire to snub George. 

‘‘And so for this and for other reasons my ‘His- 
tory of Coincidence’ is still to write.” 

Silence. 

Wishing to round off the episode, he added; 

“We are all so glad that you have come.” 

Silence. 
~ “Here we are!” called Freddy. 

“Oh, good!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his 
brow. 

‘In there’s the pond. I wish it was bigger,” he 
added apologetically. 

They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-need- — 
les. ‘There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green ~ 
—only a pond, but large enough to contain the hum- 
an body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On ac- — 
count of the rains, the waters had flooded the sur- — 
rounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emer- — 
ald path, tempting the feet towards the central 
pool. | ; 

“It’s distinctly successful, as ponds go,” said Mr. — 
Beebe. ‘No apologies are necessary for the pond.” ; 

—198— ; 





Twelfth Chapter 


George sat down where the ground was dry, and 
drearily unlaced his boots. 

“Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? 
I love willow-herb in seed. What’s the name of 
this aromatic plant?” 

No one knew, or seemed to care. 

‘These abrupt changes of vegetation—this little 
spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side 
of it all the growths are tough or brittle—heather, 
bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charm- 
ing.” 

“Mr. Beebe, aren’t you bathing?” called Freddy, 
as he stripped himself. 

Mr: Beebe thought he was not. 

‘“Water’s wonderful!” cried Freddy, prancing in. 

‘““Water’s water,” murmured George. Wetting 
his hair first—a sure sign of apathy—he followed 
Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were 
a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was 
necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to 
keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched 
the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above 
their heads. 

‘Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,”’ went Freddy, 
swimming for two strokes in either direction, and 
then becoming involved in reeds or mud. 

“Ts it worth it?” asked the other, Michelangel- 
esque on the flooded margin. 

The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool 





A Room with a View 





before he had weighed the question properly. 

‘‘Hee—poof—lI’ve swallowed a pollywog. Mr. 
Beebe, water’s wonderful, water’s simply ripping.” 

‘‘Water’s not so bad,’”’ said George, reappearing 
from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. 

‘‘Water’s wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.” 

‘‘Apooshoo, kouf.” 

Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always ac- 
quiesced where possible, looked around him. He 
could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, 
rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each 
other against the blue. How glorious it was! 
The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded 
illimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind— 
these things not even the seasons can touch, and 
surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man? 

‘IT may as well wash too’; and soon his gar- 
ments made a third little pile on the sward, and he 
too asserted the wonder of the water. 

It was ordinary water, nor was there very much 
of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swim- 
ming in a salad. ‘The three gentlemen rotated in 
the pool breast high, after the fashion of the 
nymphs in Gotterdammerung. But either because 
the rains had given a freshness or because the sun 
was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two 
of the gentlemen were young in years and the third 


young in spirit—for some reason or other a change _ 
came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany — 


—200— 





li tlie Al Oe a Re aaa = Mirth 


ey ee ae 


Twelfth Chapter 


and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and 
Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, 
they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared 
they had offended him. Then all the forces of 
youth burst out. He smiled, flung himself at them, 
splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied 
them, and drove them out of the pool. 

‘““Race you round it, then,” cried Freddy, and 
they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short 
cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second 
time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run—a mem- 
orable sight. 

They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, 
they’ played at being Indians in the willow-herbs 
and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And 
all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on 
the sward, proclaiming: 

“No. We are what matters. Without us shall 
no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in 
the end.” 

“A try! A try!” yelled Freddy, snatching up 
George’s bundle and placing it beside an imaginary 
goal-post. 

“Socker rules,’ George retorted, scattering 
Freddy’s bundle with a kick. 

“Goal!” 

“Goal!” 

‘Pass |” 

“Take care my watch!” cried Mr. Beebe. 

=-20I— 





A Room with a View 


Clothes. flew in all directions. 

“Take care my hat! No, that’s enough, Freddy. 
Dress now. No, I say!” 

But the two young men were delirious. Away 
they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical 
waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake 
hat on his dripping hair. 

‘That'll do!’ shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering 
that after all he was in his own parish. Then his 
voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural 
Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming, 
you fellows!” 

Yells, and widening circles over the dappled 
earth. 

“Hi! hi! Ladies!” 

Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined. 
Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe’s last warning 
or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch, 
Cecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call 
on old Mrs. Butterworth. Freddy dropped the 
waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some 
bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned 
and scudded away down the path to the pond, still! 
clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat. 

‘Gracious alive!’’ cried Mrs. Honeychurch. 
‘‘Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, 
dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too! 
Whatever has happened?” 

‘‘Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, 
who always felt that he must lead women, though 

—202— 


Twelfth Chapter 


he knew not whither, and protect them, though he 
knew not against what. He led them now towards 
the bracken where Freddy sat concealed. 

“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat 
we left in the path? Cecil, Mr. Beebe’s waist- 
coat—”’ 

‘No business of ours,” said Cecil, glancing at 
Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently ‘‘minded.”’ 

‘IT fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.” 

“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.” 

They followed him up the bank attempting the 
tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for 
ladies on such occasions. 

“Well, J can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, 
and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of 
snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I can’t be 
trodden on, can I?” 

‘Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What 
miserable management! Why not have a ,com- 
fortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?” 

‘Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a 
fellow’s got to dry, and if another fellow—’”’ 

“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you 
are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” ‘They 
turned. ‘Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr. 
Beebe! How unfortunate again—” 

For Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, 
on whose surface garments of an intimate nature 
did float; while George, the world-weary George, 
shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish. 

+203— 





A Room with a View 


‘‘And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of 


the bracken. ‘I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It 
wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson, 
you beast, you’ve got on my bags.” 

‘Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who 
found it impossible to remain shocked. ‘“‘And do 
be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All 
these colds come of not drying thoroughly.” 

‘Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh, for 
goodness’ sake, do come.”’ 

“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies 
stopped. 

He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, 
bare-chested, radiant and personable against the 
shadowy woods, he called: 

‘Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!” 

“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I 
shall bow.” 

Miss Honeychurch bowed. 

That evening and all that night the water ran 
away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its 
old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to 
the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benedic- 
tion whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a 
spell, a momentary chalice for youth. 


—204— 


Chapter XIII: How Miss Bartlett’s 
Boiler Was So Tiresome 


OW often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, 
H this interview! But she had always re- 
hearsed them indoors, and with certain 
accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. 
Who could foretell that she and George would 
meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army 
of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded 
over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young 
Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or in- 
different or furtively impudent. She was prepared 
for all of these. But she had never imagined one 
who would be happy and greet her with the shout 
of the morning star. 

Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. 
Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to 
foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, 
that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in 
the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption 
of the audience on to the stage, and all our care- 
fully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too 
much. “I will bow,’ she had thought. “I will 
not shake hands with him. That will be just the 
proper thing.” She had bowed—but to whom? 
To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! 

—205— 


A Room with a View 





She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers 
the world. 

So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were 
busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful 
engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted 
to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He 
did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they 
change their colour at the seaside. He did not 
want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was al- 
ways elaborate, and made long, clever answers 
where ‘Yes’ or “No” would have done. Lucy 
soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in 
a way that promised well for their married peace. 
No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to dis- 
cover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss 
Bartlett, indeed, though not in word, had taught 
the girl that this our life contains nothing satis- 
factory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, 
regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it — 
to her lover. 

‘‘Lucy,” said her mother, when they got home, 
‘is anything ithe matter with Cecil?” 

The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. 
Honeychurch had behaved with charity and re- 
straint. 

‘No, I don’t think so, mother; Cecil’s all right.” 

‘Perhaps he’s tired.” 

Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little 
tired. 

‘Because otherwise’—she pulled out her bon- 

—206— 





Miss Bartlett’s Boiler 





net-pins with gathering displeasure—“because 
otherwise I cannot account for him.” 

“T do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, 
if you mean that.” 

“Cecil has told you to think so. You were de- 
voted to her as a little girl, and nothing will de- 
scribe her goodness to you through the typhoid 
fever. No—it is just the same thing everywhere.” 

‘Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?” 

“Surely he could answer her civilly for one half- 
hour ?”’ 

“Cecil has a very high standard for people,” 
faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. “It’s part of 
his ideals—it is really that that makes him some- 
times seem—” 

“Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young 
man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the bet- 
ter,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bon- 
net. 

‘Now, mother! I’ve seen you cross with Mrs. 
Butterworth yourself!” 

“Not in that way. At times I could wring her 
neck. But not in that way. No. It is the same 
with Cecil all over.” 

“By-the-by—I never told you. I had a letter 
from Charlotte while 1 was away in London.” 

This attempt to divert the conversation was too 
puerile, and Mrs. Honeychurch resented it. 

“Since Cecil came back from London, nothing 
appears to please him. Whenever I speak he 

—207— 


A Room with a View 





winces;—I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contra- 
dict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor liter- 
ary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help 
the drawing-room furniture; your father bought it 
and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly re- 
member.” 

‘“J—I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil 
oughtn’t to. But he does not mean to be uncivil 
—he once explained—it is the things that upset 
him—he is easily upset by ugly things—he is not 
uncivil to people.” __ 

“Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?” 

‘You can’t expect a really musical person to’ en- 
joy comic songs as we do.” 

‘Then why didn’t he leave the room? Why 
sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone’s 
pleasure?” 

‘We mustn’t be unjust to people,” faltered Lucy. 
Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, 
which she had mastered so perfectly in London, 
would not come forth in an effective form. The 
two civilizations had clashed—Cecil hinted that 
they might—and she was dazzled and bewildered, 
as though the radiance that lies behind all civiliza- 
tion had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad 
taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse 
cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through 
pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable 
from the comic song. 

She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. 

—208-— 


; 


| 


Miss Bartlett’s Boiler 





Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and 
every now and then she said a word, and made 
things no better. There was no concealing the 
fact—Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he 
had succeeded. And Lucy—she knew not why— 
wished that the trouble could have come at any 
other time. 

‘Go and dress, dear; you'll be late.” 

“All right, mother—” 

“Don't say ‘All right’ and stop. Go.” 

She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the 
landing window. It faced north, so there was little 
view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the win- 
ter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One 
connected the landing window with depression. No 
definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to 
herself, ‘Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I 
do?’’ It seemed to her that every one else was 
behaving very badly. And she ought not to have 
mentioned Miss Bartlett’s letter. She must be more 
careful; her mother was rather inquisitive, and 
might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, 
what should she do ?—and then Freddy came bound- 
ing up-stairs, and joined the ranks of the ill- 
behaved. 

“IT say, those are topping people.” 

“My dear baby, how tiresome you’ve been! You 
had no business to take them bathing in the Sacred 
Lake; it’s much too public. It was all right for 
you, but most awkward for every one else. Do be 

—209— 


A Room with a View 





more careful. You forget the place is growing half 
suburban.” 

“T say, is anything on to-morrow week?” 

“Not that I know of.” 

“Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday 
tennis.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Freddy, I wouldn’t do 
that with all this muddle.” 

‘““What’s wrong with the court? They won't 
mind a bump or two, and I’ve ordered new balls.” 
“T meant it’s better not. I really mean it.” 

He seized her by the elbows and humorously 
danced her up and down the passage. She pre- 
tended not to mind, but she could have screamed 
with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he pro- 
ceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with 
her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honey- 
church opened her door and said: “Lucy, what 
a noise you’re making! I have something to say 
to you. Did you say you had had a letter from 
Charlotte?” and Freddy ran away. 

“Yes. I really can’t stop. I must dress too.” 

‘“How’s Charlotte?” 

“All right.” 

“Lucy!” 

The unfortunate girl returned. 

“You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the 
middle of one’s sentences. Did Charlotte mention 
her boiler?” 

“Her what?” 

—2 10 


Miss Bartlett’s Boiler 





“Don’t you remember that her boiler was to be 
had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned 
out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?”’ 

“IT can’t remember all Charlotte’s worries,” said 
Lucy bitterly. “I shall have enough of my own, 
now that you are not pleased with Cecil.” 

Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She 
did not. She said: “Come here, old lady—thank 
you for putting away my bonnet—kiss me.” And, 
though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment 
that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald 
in the declining sun were perfect. 

So the grittiness went out of life. It generally 
did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when 
the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one mem- 
ber or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. 
Cecil despised their methods—perhaps rightly. At 
all events, they were not his own. 

Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled 
a grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and 
fell to. ‘Fortunately, the men were hungry. Noth- 
ing untoward occurred until the pudding. ‘Then 
Freddy said: 

“Lucy, what’s Emerson like ?”’ 

“T saw him in Florence,” said Lucy, hoping that 
this would pass for a reply. 

“Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?” 

“Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here.” 

“Efe is the clever sort, like myself,” said Cecil. 

Freddy looked at him doubtfully. 

—21I- 


’ 


A Room with a View 





‘How well did you know them at the Bertolini?” 
asked Mrs. Honeychurch. 

“Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew 
them even less than I did.” 

“Oh, that reminds me—you never told me what 
Charlotte said in her letter.” 

‘One thing and another,” said Lucy, wondering 
whether she would get through the meal without 
a lie. ‘Among other things, that an awful friend 
of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, — 
wondered if she’d come up and see us, and merci- 
fully didn’t.” 

‘Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind.” 

‘She was a novelist,” said Lucy craftily. The 
remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. 
Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of 
females. She would abandon every topic to in- 
veigh against those women who (instead of mind- 
ing their houses and their children) seek notoriety 
by print. Her attitude was: “If books must be 
written, let them be written by men’; and she de- 
veloped it at great length, while Cecil yawned and 
Freddy played at “This year, next year, now, 
never,” with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed 
the flames of her mother’s wrath. But soon the 
conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to 
gather in the darkness. There were too many 
ghosts about. The original ghost—that touch of 
lips on her cheek—had surely been laid long ago; 
it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed 

—~212— 


Miss Bartlett’s Boiler 


her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a 
spectral family—Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett’s letter, 
Mr. Beebe’s memories of violets—and one or other 
of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil’s very 
eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, 
and with appalling vividness. 

“IT have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of 
Charlotte’s. How is she?” 

“TI tore the thing up.” 

‘‘Didn’t she say how she was? How does she 
sound? Cheerful?” 

“Oh, yes, I suppose so—no—not very cheerful, 
I suppose.” 

“Then, depend upon it, it is the boiler. I know 
myself how water preys upon one’s mind. I would 
rather anything else—even a misfortune with the 
meat.”’ 

Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. 

‘So would I,” asserted Freddy, backing his 
mother up—backing up the spirit of her remark 
rather than the substance. 

‘And I have been thinking,” she added rather 
nervously, ‘“‘surely we could squeeze Charlotte in 
here next week, and give her a nice holiday while 
the plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have 
not seen poor Charlotte for so long.” | 

It was more than her nerves could stand. And 
yet she could not protest violently after her mother’s 
goodness to her upstairs. 

“Mother, no!’’ she pleaded. ‘It’s impossible. 

—213- 


A Room with a View 





We can’t have Charlotte on the top of the other 
things; we’re squeezed to death as it is. Freddy’s 
got a friend coming Tuesday, there’s Cecil, and 
you’ve promised to take in Minnie Beebe because 
of the diphtheria scare. It simply can’t be done.” 

‘Nonsense! It can.” 

“Tf Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise.” 

‘Minnie can sleep with you.” 

“T won’t have her.” 

‘Then, if you’re so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share 
a room with Freddy.” 

“Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett,” 
moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes. 

‘It’s impossible,” repeated Lucy. “I don’t 
want to make difficulties, but it really isn’t fair on 
the maids to fill up the house so.” 

Alas! 

‘The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte.” 

‘“"No, I don’t. And no more does Cecil. She 
gets on our nerves. You haven’t seen her lately, 
and don’t realize how tiresome she can be, though 
so good. So please, mother, don’t worry us this 
last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to 
come.” 

“FfYear, hear!” said Cecil. 

Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than 
usual, and with more feeling than she usually per- 
mitted herself, replied: ‘“This isn’t very kind of 
you two. You have each other and all these woods 
to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor 

=—214-— 


Ee ae 


Miss Bartlett’s Boiler 





Charlotte has only the water turned off and 
plumbers. You are young, dears, and however 
clever young people are, and however many books 
they read, they will never guess what it feels like 
to grow old.” 

Cecil crumbled his bread. 

“I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to 
me that year I called on my bike,” put in Freddy. 
“She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a 
fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled 
for my tea just right.” 

“I know, dear. She is kind to every one, and 
yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give 
her some little return.” 

But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good 
being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself 
too often and too recently. One might lay up 
treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one en- 
riched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon 
earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help 
it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s 
horrid of me.” 

‘From your own account, you told her as much.” 

“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. 
She flurried—”’ 

The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, 
they were even usurping the places she had known 
as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the 
same again, and, on Sunday week, something would 
even happen to Windy Corner. How would she 


A Room with a View 





fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible 
world faded away, and memories and emotions 
alone seemed real. 

“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she 
boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather 
a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable 
cooking. 

‘TI didn’t mean the egg was well boiled,” cor- 
rected Freddy, ‘“‘because in point of fact she forgot 
to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care 
for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she 
seemed.” 

Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! 
Eggs, boilers, hydrangeas, maids—of such were 
their lives compact. ‘“‘May me and Lucy get down 
from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled 
insolence. ‘‘We don’t want no dessert.” 


—2 16— 


gs 


Chapter XIV: How Lucy Faced the 
External Situation Bravely 


F course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, 
() equally of course, she felt sure that she 

would prove a nuisance, and begged to be 
given an inferior spare room—something with no 
view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And, equally 
of course, George Emerson could come to tennis 
on the Sunday week. 

Lucy faced the situation bravely, oueh like 
most of us, she only faced the situation that en- 
compassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at 
times strange images rose from the depths, she put 
them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the 
Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her 
nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolish- 
ness, and this might upset her nerves. She was 
nervous at night. When she talked to George— 
they met again almost immediately at the Rectory 
—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to 
remain near him. How dreadful if she really 
wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish 
was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse 
tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things 
that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t 


A Room with a View 





know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology 
to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of 
youth in an unknown world could be dismissed. 

It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, 
“She loves young Emerson.”’ A reader in Lucy’s 
place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to’ 
chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we wel- 
come “nerves” or any other shibboleth that~ will 
cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George 
made her nervous; will the reader explain to her 
that the phrases should have been reversed? 

But the external situation—she will face that 
bravely. 

The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well 
enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, 
she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy, 
and George had replied. She was anxious to show 
that she was not shy, and was glad that he did not 
seem shy either. 

‘“A nice fellow,’ said Mr. Beebe afterwards, 
“He will work off his crudities in time. I rather 
mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully.” 

Lucy said, ‘‘He seems in better spirits. He 
laughs more.” 

“Yes,”’ replied the clergyman. ‘“‘He is waking 
up.” 

That was all. But, as the week wore on, more 
of her defences fell, and she entertained an image 
that had physical beauty. 

In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett 

—218— 


Lucy Faced the External Situation 





contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at 
the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs. 
Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at 
the London and Brighton station, and had to hire 
acabup. No one was at home except Freddy and 
his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to 
entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy 
turned up at four o’clock, and these, with little 
Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sex- 
tette upon the upper lawn for tea. 

“T shall never forgive myself,” said Miss Bart- 
lett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to 
be begged by the united company to remain. “T 
have upset everything. Bursting in on young peo- 
ple! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant 
me that, at any rate.”’ 

“Our visitors never do such dreadful things,”’ 
said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory 
the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, 
exclaimed in irritable tones: “Just what I’ve been 
trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for 
the last half hour.” 

“T do not feel myself an ordinary visitor,” said 
Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed gloves. 

“All right, if you’d really rather. Five shillings, 
and I gave a bob to the driver.” 

Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sov- 
ereigns and pennies. Could any one give her 
change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend 
had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their 


b) 


A Room with a View 


moneys and then said: “But who am I to give the 
sovereign to?” 

‘‘Let’s leave it all till mother comes back,” sug- 
gested Lucy. 

‘No, dear; your mother may take quite a long 
drive now that she is not hampered with me. We 
all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt 
settling of accounts.” 

Here Freddy’s friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one 
remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to 
toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett’s quid. A solution 
seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been 
ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt 
the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round. 

But this did not do, either. 

‘‘Please—please—I know I am a sad spoilsport, 
but it would make me wretched. I should prac- 
tically be robbing the one who lost.” 

‘Freddy owes me fifteen shillings,” interposed 
Cecil. “So it will work out right if you give the 
pound to me.” 

“Fifteen shillings,’ said Miss Bartlett dubi- — 
ously. ‘How is that, Mr. Vyse?” : 

‘Because, don’t you see, Freddy paid your cab. 
Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this de- 
plorable gambling.”’ 

Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became 
bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst — 
the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For — 
a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at — 

—220— | 





Lucy F aced the External Situation 





nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at 
Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the 
smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo 
from this stupefying twaddle. 

“But I don’t see that!’ exclaimed Minnie Beebe 
who had narrowly watched the iniquitous trans- 
action. “I don’t see why Mr. Vyse is to have the 
quid.” 

“Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,” 
they said solemnly. ‘Fifteen shillings and five 
shillings make one pound, you see.” 

“But I don’t see—” 

They tried to stifle her with cake. 

“No, thank you. I’m done. I don’t see why— 
Freddy, don’t poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your 
brother’s hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. 
Floyd’s ten shillings? Ow! No, I don’t see and 
I never shall see why Miss What’s-her-name should- 
n't pay that bob for the driver.” 

“T had forgotten the driver,” said Miss Bartlett, 
reddening. ‘Thank you, dear, for reminding me. 
A shilling was it? Can any one give me change 
for half a crown?” 

“Tll get it,” said the young hostess, rising with 
decision. “Cecil, give me that sovereign. No— 
give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to 
change it, and we'll start the whole thing again 
from the beginning.” 

“Lucy—Lucy—what a nuisance I am!” pro- 
tested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the 

—221-— 


A Room with a View 





lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. 
When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett 
stopped her wails and said quite briskly: “Have 
you told him about him yet?” 

‘No, I haven't,” replied Lucy, and then could 
have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly 
what her cousin meant. ‘Let me see—a sover- 
eign’s worth of silver.” | 

She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett’s 
sudden transitions were too uncanny. It some- 
times seemed as if she planned every word she 
spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry 
about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise 
the soul. 

‘No, I haven’t told Cecil or any one,” she re- 
marked, when she returned. “I promised you | 
shouldn’t. Here is your money—all shillings, ex- 
cept two half-crowns. Would you count it? You 
can settle your debt nicely now.” 

Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing 
at the photograph of St. John ascending, which 
had been framed. 

‘How dreadful!’ she murmured, “how more 
than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear 
of it from some other source.” 

“Oh, no, Charlotte,” said the girl, entering the 
battle. ‘George Emerson is all right, and what 
other source is there?” 

‘Miss Bartlett considered. ‘‘For instance, the 

—222— 





Lucy Faced the External Situation 


driver. I saw him looking through the bushes 
at you. I remember he had a violet between his 
teeth.” 

Lucy shuddered a little. ‘“We shall get the silly 
affair on our nerves if we aren’t careful. How 
could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of 
Cecil?” 

‘We must think of every possibility.” 

“Oh, it’s all right.” 

“Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, 
he is certain to know.”’ 

“T don’t care if he does. I was grateful to you 
for your letter, but even if the news does get round, 
I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it.” 

“To contradict it?” 

“No, to laugh at it.’ But she knew in her heart 
that she could not trust him, for he desired her 
untouched. 

“Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps 
gentlemen are different to what they were when 
I was young. Ladies are certainly different.” 

‘Now, Charlotte!” She struck at her playfully. 
“You kind, anxious thing! What would you have 
me do? First you say, ‘Don’t tell’; and then you 
say, ‘Tell.’ Which is it to be? Quick!” 

Miss Bartlett sighed. ‘I am no match for you 
in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think 
how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able 
to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all 

—223= 


A Room with a View 





ways than I am. You will never forgive me.” 

‘Shall we go out, then. They will smash all 
the china if we don’t.” 

For the*air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, 
who was being scalped with a teaspoon. 

‘Dear, one moment—we may not have this 
chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young 
one yet?” 

“Yes, I have.” 

‘“What happened?” 

‘We met at the Rectory.” 

‘“What line is he taking up?” 

‘No line. He talked about Italy, like any othes 
person. It is really all right. What advantage 
would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? 
I do wish I could make you see it my way. He 
really won’t be any nuisance, Charlotte.” 


OR a cad, always a cad. That is my poor | 


opinion.” 

Lucy paused. ‘‘Cecil said one day—and I 
thought it so profound—that there are two kinds 
of cads—the conscious and the subconscious.” She 
paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil’s 
profundity. Through the window she saw Cecil 
himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It 
was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mother 
must have returned from the station. 

“Once a cad, always a cad,” droned Miss Bart- 
lett. 

“What I mean by subconscious is that {Mr. 

—224— 


| 


Lucy Faced the External Situation 





Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, 
and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we 
ought to blame him very much. It makes such a 
difference when you see a person with beautiful 
things behind him unexpectedly. It really does; 
it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his 
head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that non- 
sense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and 
has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge 
for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always 
look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is 
a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of 
the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to 
his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with 
journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. 
There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of 
her guest by the arm. ‘Suppose we don’t talk 
about this silly Italian business any more. We 
want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy 
Corner, with no worriting.” 

Lucy thought this rather a good speech. ‘The 
reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in 
it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one 
cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into 
the minds of elderly people. She might have 
spoken further, but they were interrupted by the 
entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, 
and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images 
throbbing a little more vividly in her brain. 


—225— 


Chapter XV: The Disaster Within 


ae HE Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was 

a glorious day, like most of the days of 

that year. In the Weald, autumn ap- 
proached, breaking up the green monotony of sum- 
mer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of 
mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with 
gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines 
witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. 
Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and 
in either arose the tinkle of church bells. 

The garden of Windy Corners was deserted 
except for a red book, which lay sunning itself 
upon the gravel path. From the house came in- 
coherent sounds, as of females preparing for wor- 
ship. ‘The men say they won’t go’— “Well, I 


‘don’t blame them’”’— ‘Minnie says, need she go?” 
— “Tell her, no nonsense’— “Anne! Mary! 
Hook me behind!”— “Dearest Lucia, may I tres- 


pass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had 

announced that she at all events was one for church. 

The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not 

by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswervy- 

ing, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever 

they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on 
—226— 


‘cn a le 


The Disaster Within 


Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over 
a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on George 
Emerson cleaning his father’s boots; and lastly, 
to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on 
the red book mentioned previously. The ladies 
move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and move- 
ment may engender shadow. But this book lies mo- 
tionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun 
and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowl- 
edging the caress. . 

Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room 
window. MHer new cerise dress has been a failure, 
and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her 
throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set 
with rubies—an engagement ring. Her eyes are 
bent to the Weald. She frowns a little—not in 
anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is try- 
ing not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye 
is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked 
and measure the spaces that yet survive between 
Apollo and the western hills. 

“Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who's 
been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it 
about to spoil?” 

“It’s only the library book that Cecil’s been 
reading.”’ 

“But pick it up, and don’t stand idling there like 
a flamingo.” 

Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title 
listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read 





A Room with a View 


novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid 
literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It 
was dreadful how little she knew, and even when 
She thought she knew a thing, like the Italian 
painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only 
this morning she had confused Francesco Francia 
with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, 
‘What! you aren’t forgetting your Italy already?” 
And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she 
saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the 
foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable 
elsewhere, the dear sun. 

‘‘Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a 
shilling for yourself?” 

She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly 
working herself into a Sunday fluster. 

“It’s a special collection—I forget what for. 
I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with half- 
pennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. 
Where is the child? Minnie! That book’s all 
warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put 
it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!” 

“Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch—” from the upper 
regions. 

“Minnie, don’t be late. Here comes the horse”’ 
—it was always the horse, never the carriage. 
‘““Where’s Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. 
Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She 
never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte 
— How I do detest blouses! Minnie!” 

—228— 


The Disaster Within 


Paganism is infectious—more infectious than 
diphtheria or piety—and the Rector’s niece was 
taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn’t 
see why. Why shouldn’t she sit in the sun with 
the young men? The young men, who had now 
appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. 
Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the 
midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the 
very height of the fashion, came strolling down the 
stairs. 

“Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no 
small change—nothing but ‘sovereigns ‘and half- 
crowns. Could any one give me—”’ 

“Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how 
smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put 
us all to shame.” 

“Tf I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, 
twhen should I wear them?” said Miss Bartlett 
reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed 
herself with her back to the horse. ‘The necessary 
uproar ensued, and then they drove off. 

“Good-bye! Be good!” called out Cecil. 

Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On 
the subject of “church and so on” they had had 
rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had 
said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and 
she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not 
know how it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil 
respected, but he always assumed that honesty is 
the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine 

—229— 





A Room with a View 


it as a natural birthright, that might grow heaven- 
ward like flowers. All that he said on this subject 
pained her, though he exuded tolerance from 
every pore; somehow the Emersons were different. 

She saw the Emersons after church. There was 
a line of carriages down the road, and the Honey- 
church vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. 
To save time, they walked over the green to it, and 
found father and son smoking in the garden. 

“Introduce me,” said her mother. ‘Unless the 
young man considers that he knows me already.” 

He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred 
Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. 
Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said 
how glad he was that she was going to be married. 
She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss 
‘Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. 
Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less dis- 
turbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new 
house. 

‘Very much,” he replied, but there was a note 
of offence in his voice; she had never known him 
offended before. He added: “We find, though, 
that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have 
turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I 
am very much upset about it.” 

“T believe that there was some misunderstand- 
ing,’ said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily. 

“Our landlord was told that we should be a dif- 

—230— 


The Disaster Within 


) 





ferent type of person,” said George, who seemed 
disposed to carry the matter further. ‘He thought 
we should be artistic. He is disappointed.” 

“And I wonder whether we ought to write to 
the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do 
you think?’ He appealed to Lucy. 

‘Oh, stop now you have come,” said Lucy lightly. 
She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on 
Cecil that the little episode turned, though his 
_ name was never mentioned. 

“So George says. He says that the Miss Alans 
must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind.” 

“There is only a certain amount of kindness in 
the world,” said George, watching the sunlight 
flash on the panels of the passing carriages. 

“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. ‘“That’s 
exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and 
twaddling over two Miss Alans?” 

“There is a certain amount of kindness, just as 
there is a certain amount of light,” he continued ini 
measured tones. “We cast a shadow on something 
wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from 
place to place to save things; because the shadow 
always follows. Choose a place where you won't 
do harm—yes, choose a place where you won’t do 
very much harm, and stand in it for all you are 
worth, facing the sunshine.” 

“Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you’re clever!”’ 

1 St ema gk 


A Room with a View 





“T see you're going to be clever. I hope you 
didn’t go behaving like that to poor Freddy.” 

George’s eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that 
he and her mother would get on rather well. 

‘‘No, I didn’t,” he said. ‘He behaved that way 
to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life 
with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation 
first.”’ 

‘What do you mean? No, never mind what 
you mean. Don’t explain. He looks forward to 
seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? 
Do you mind tennis on Sunday—?” 

‘George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after 
his education, distinguish between Sunday—” 

‘Very well, George doesn’t mind tennis on Sun- 
day. No more do I. That’s settled. Mr. Em- 
erson, if you could come with your son we should 
be so pleased.” 

He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather 
far; he could only potter about in these days. 

She turned to George: ‘‘And then he wants to 
give up his house to the Miss Alans.” 

“I know,” said George, and put his arm round 
his father’s neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe 
and Lucy had always known to exist in him came 
out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast land- 
scape—a touch of the morning sun? She remem- 
bered, that in all his perversities he ne never 
spoken against affection. 

Miss Bartlett approached. 

—232-— 


The Disaster Within 


“You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett,” said Mrs. 
Honeychurch pleasantly. ‘You met her with my 
daughter in Florence.” , 

“Yes, indeed!” said the old man, and made as if 
he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. 
Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus 
entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the 
Pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the 
decanters of water and wine. It was the old, old 
battle of the room with the view. 

George did not respond to the bow. Like any 
boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the 
chaperon remembered. He said: “I—I’ll come 
up to tennis if I can manage it,’’ and went into the 
house. Perhaps anything that he did would have 
pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to 
her heart; men were not gods after all, but as hu- 
man and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer 
from unexplained desires, and need help. To one 
of her upbringing, and of her destination, the 
weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she 
had surmised it at Florence, when George threw 
her photographs into the River Arno. 

“George, don’t go,” cried his father, who thought 
it a great treat for people if his son would talk to 
them. ‘‘George has been in such good spirits to- 
day, and I am sure he will end by coming up this 
afternoon.” 

Lucy caught her cousin’s eye. Something in its 
mute appeal made her reckless. ‘Yes,’ she said, 


—233- 





A Room with a View 





raising her voice, “I do hope he will.”” Then she 
went to the carriage and murmured, “The old man 
hasn’t been told; I knew it was all right.” Mrs. 
Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away. 

Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told 
of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy’s spirits should 
not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts 
of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it 
with disproportionate joy. All the way home the 
horses’ hoofs sang a tune to her: “He has not 
told, he has not told.’ Her brain expanded the 
melody: “He has not told his father—to whom 
he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did 
not laugh at me when I had gone.” She raised her 
hand to her cheek. ‘‘He does not love me. No. | 
How terrible if he did! But he has not told. He 
will not tell.” 

She longed to shout the words: “It is all right. 
It’s a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will 
never hear.” She was even glad that Miss Bart- 
lett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark 
evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in 
his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded. 
Only three English people knew of it in the world. 

Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted 
Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so 
safe. A's he helped her out of the carriage, she 
said: 

‘The Emersons have been so nice. George 
Emerson has improved enormously.” 


—234— 


The Disaster Within 


“Oh, how are my protégés?”’ asked Cecil, who 
took no real interest in them, and had long since 
forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy 
Corner for educational purposes. 

“Protégés!” she exclaimed with some warmth. 

For the only relationship which Cecil conceived 
was feudal: that of protector and protected. He 
had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the 
girl’s soul yearned. 

“You shall see for yourself how your protégés 
are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. 
He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only 
don’t—” She nearly said, ‘Don’t protect him.” 
But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often 
happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her 
remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her 
forte. 

Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was 
depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed— 
either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible 
to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her 
soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In Janv- 
ary you must go to London to entertain the grand- 
children of celebrated men.’ But to-day she felt 
she had received a guarantee. Her mother would 
always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though 
it had moved a little since the morning, would never 
be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon 
they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s dr- 
mide that year, and played from memory the music 


—235- 





A Room with a View 


of the enchanted garden—the music to which Re- 
naud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal 
dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but 
ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. 
Such music is not for the piano, and her audience 
began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discon- 
tent, called out: ‘‘Now play us the other garden— 
the one in Parsifal.” 

She closed the instrument. 

‘Not very dutiful,” said her mother’s voice. 

Fearing that she had offended Cecil, she turned 
quickly round. ‘There George was. He had crept 
in without interrupting her. 

‘Oh, I had no idea!” she exclaimed, getting very 
red; and then, without a word of greeting, she re- 
opened the piano. Cecil should have the Parsifai, . 
and anything else that he liked. 

“Our performer has changed her mind,” said 
Miss Bartlett, perhaps implying, she will play the 
music to Mr. Emerson. Lucy did not know what 
to do nor even what she wanted to do. She played 
a few bars of the Flower Maidens’ song very badly 
and then she stopped. 

‘IT vote tennis,” said Freddy, disgusted at the 
scrappy entertainment. 

“Yes, so do I.’ Once more she closed the un- 
fortunate piano. “I vote you have a men’s four.” 

‘All right.” 

‘‘Not for me, thank you,” said Cecil. “I will 
not spoil the set.’’ He never realized that it may 

+236— 


The Disaster Within 


be an act of kindness in a bad player to make up 
a fourth. 

“Oh, come along Cecil. I’m bad, Floyd’s rotten, 
and so I dare say’s Emerson.” 

George corrected him: ‘I am not bad.” 

One looked down one’s nose at this. “Then 
certainly I won’t play,” said Cecil, while Miss Bart- 
lett, under the impression that she was snubbing 
George, added: “‘I agree with you, Mr. Vyse. You 
had much better not play. Much better not.” 

Minnie, rushing in where Cecil feared to tread, 
announced that she would play. “I shall miss every 
ball anyway, so what does it matter?’ But Sunday 
intervened and stamped heavily upon the kindly 
suggestion. 

‘Then it will have to be Lucy,” said Mrs. Honey- 
church; “you must fall back on Lucy. There is no 
other way out of it. Lucy, go and change your 
frock.” 

Lucy’s Sabbath was generally of this amphibious 
nature. She kept it without hypocrisy in the morn- 
ing, and broke it without reluctance in the afternoon. 
As she changed her frock, she wondered whether 
Cecil was sneering at her; really she must overhaul 
herself and settle everything up before she married 
him. 

Mr. Floyd was her partner. She liked music, but 
how much better tennis seemed. How much 
better to run about in comfortable clothes than to 
sit at the piano and feel girt under the arms. Once 





A Room with a View 





more music appeared to her the employment of a 
child. George served, and surprised her by his 
anxiety to win. She remembered how he had sighed 
among the tombs at Santa Croce because things 
wouldn’t fit; how after the death of that obscure 
Italian he had leant over the parapet by the Arno 
and said to her: “I shall want to live, I tell you.” 
He wanted to live now, to win at tennis, to stand for 
all he was worth in the sun—in the sun which had 
begun to decline and was shining in her eyes; and he 
did win. 

Ah, how beautiful the Weald looked! The hills 
stood out above its radiance, as Fiesole stands above 
the Tuscan Plain, and the South Downs, if one 
chose, were the mountains of ‘Carrara. She might 
be forgetting her Italy, but she was noticing more 
things in her England. One could play a new game 
with the view, and try to find in its innumerable 
folds some town or village that would do for Flor- 
ence. Ah, how beautiful the Weald looked! 

But now Cecil claimed her. He chanced to be in 
a lucid critical mood, and would not sympathize 
with exaltation. He had been rather a nuisance 
all through the tennis, for the novel that he was — 
reading was so bad that he was obliged to read 
it aloud to others. He would stroll round the pre- 
cincts of the court and call out: “I say, listen to this, 
Lucy. Three split infinitives.” ‘Dreadful!’ said 
Lucy, and missed her stroke. When they had fin- 
ished their set, he still went on reading; there was 

—238— 


The Disaster Within 


some murder scene, and really every one must listen 
to it. Freddy and Mr. Floyd were obliged to hunt 
for a lost ball in the laurels, but the other two 
acquiesced. 

“The scene is laid in Florence.” 

“What fun, Cecil! Read away. Come, Mr. 
Emerson, sit down after all your energy.” She 
had ‘‘forgiven” George, as she put it, and she made 
a point of being pleasant to him. 

He jumped over the net and sat down at her 
feet, asking: ‘‘You—and are you tired?” 

“Of course I’m not!” 

“Do you mind being beaten?” 

She was going to answer, “No,” when it struck 
her that she did mind, so she answered, ‘Yes.’ 
She added merrily, “I don’t see you’re such a splen- 
did player, though. The light was behind you, 
and it was in my eyes.” 

“T never said I was.” 

“Why, you did!” 

“You didn’t attend.” 

“You said—oh, don’t go in for accuracy at 
this house. We all exaggerate, and we get very 
angry with people who don't.” 

“The scene is laid in Florence,’ 
with an upward note. 

Lucy recollected herself. 

“Sunset. Leonora was speeding— 

Lucy interrupted. ‘Leonora? Is Leonora the 
heroine? Who’s the book by?” 


-239- 





’ 


repeated Cecil, 


be IP 


A Room with a View 





‘Joseph Emery Prank. ‘Sunset. Leonora was 
speeding across the square. Pray the saints she 
might not arrive too late. Sunset—the sunset of 
Italy. Under Orcagna’s Loggia—the Loggia de’ 
Lanzi, as we sometimes call it now—’ ”’ 

Lucy burst into laughter. “ ‘Joseph Emery 
Prank’ indeed! Why it’s Miss Lavish! It’s Miss 
Lavish’s novel, and she’s publishing it under some- 
body else’s name.” 

‘Who may Miss Lavish be?” 

“Oh, a dreadful person—Mr. Emerson, you re- 
member Miss Lavish?” Excited by her pleasant 
afternoon, she clapped her hands. 

George looked up. ‘Of course I do. I saw her 
the day I arrived at Summer Street. It was she 
who told me that you lived here.” 

‘‘Weren’t you pleased?” She meant—“to see 
Miss Lavish,” but when he bent down to the grass 
without replying, it struck her that she could mean 
something else. She watched his head, which was 
almost resting against her knee, and she thought that 
the ears were reddening. ‘No wonder the novel’s 
bad,’ she added. ‘I never liked Miss Lavish. 
But I suppose one ought to read it as one’s met 
hen 

‘All modern books are bad,” said Cecil, who was 
annoyed at her inattention, and vented his annoyance 


on literature. “Every one writes for money in 
these days.” 
“Oh, Cecil—!” 


~240— 


The Disaster Within 


“It is so. I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on 
you no longer.” 

Cecil, this afternoon, seemed such a twittering 
sparrow. The ups and downs in his voice were 
noticeable, but they did not affect her. She had 
dwelt amongst melody and movement, and _ her 
nerves refused to answer to the clang of his. 
Leaving him to be annoyed, she gazed at the black 
head again. She did not want to stroke it, but she 
saw herself wanting to stroke it; the sensation was 
curious. 

‘How do you like this view of ours, Mr. Emer- 
son?” 

“T never notice much difference in views.” 

“What do you mean?” 

‘Because they’re all alike. Because all that mat- 
ters in them is distance and air.” 

‘““H’m!”’ said Cecil, uncertain whether the remark 
was striking or not. 

‘My father’—he looked up at her (and he was 
a little flushed )—‘‘says that there is only one per- 
fect view—the view of the sky straight over our 
heads, and that all these views on earth are but 
bungled copies of it.” 

‘“T expect your father has been reading Dante,” 
said Cecil, fingering the novel, which alone permit- 
ted him to lead the conversation. 

“He told us another day that views are really 
crowds—crowds of trees and houses and hills—and 
are bound to resemble each other, like human crowds 





A Room with a View 





—and that the power they have over us is some- 
times supernatural, for the same reason.” 

Lucy’s lips parted. 

‘For a crowd is more than the people who make 
it up. Something gets.added to it—no one knows 
how—Just as something has got added to those 
hills.” 

He pointed with his racquet to the South Downs. 

‘What a splendid idea!’ she murmured. “I 
shall enjoy hearing your father talk again. I’m so 
sorry he’s not so well.” 

“No, he isn’t well.” 

‘“There’s an absurd account of a view in this 
book,” said Cecil. 

‘Also that men fall into two classes—those who 
forget views and those who remember them, even in 
small rooms.”’ 

‘‘Mr. Emerson, have you any brothers or sisters?” 

‘None. Why?” 

‘You spoke of ‘us.’ ”’ 

‘‘My mother, I was meaning.” 

Cecil closed the novel with a bang. 

“Oh, Cecil—how you made me jump!” 

“T will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no 
longer.” 

“T can just remember us all three going into 
the country for the day and seeing as far as Hind- 
head. It is the first thing that I remember.” 

Cecil got up; the man was ill-bred—he hadn’t 
put on his coat after tennis—he didn’t do. He 


The Disaster Within 


would have strolled away if Lucy had not stopped 
him. 

“Cecil, do read the thing about the view.” 

“Not while Mr. Emerson is here to entertain us.”’ 

‘“‘No—read away. I think nothing’s funnier than 
to hear silly things read out loud. If Mr. Emer- 
son thinks us frivolous, he can go.” 

This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It 
put their visitor in the position of a prig. Some- 
what mollified, he sat down again. 

“Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls.” She 
opened the book. Cecil must have his reading and 
anything else that he liked. But her attention wan- 
dered to George’s mother, who—according to Mr. 
Eager—had been murdered in the sight of God— 
according to her son—had seen as far as Hind- 
head. 

‘Am I really to go?” asked George. 

“No, of course not really,” she answered. | 

“Chapter two,” said Cecil, yawning. “Find me 
chapter two, if it isn’t bothering you.” 

Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its 
opening sentences. 

She thought she had gone mad. 

‘‘Hfere—hand me the book.” 

She heard her voice saying: “It isn’t worth 
reading—it’s too silly to read—I never saw such 
rubbish—it oughtn’t to be allowed to be printed.” 

He took the book from her. 

‘*T eonora,’”’ he read, ‘‘ ‘sat pensive and alone. 


—2.43— 





A Room with a View 


Before her lay the rich champaign of Tuscany, dot- 
ted over with many a smiling village. The season 
was spring.’ ”’ 

Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the 
past in draggled prose, for Cecil to read and for 
George to hear. 

‘A golden haze,’” he read. He read: “ “Afar 
off the towers of Florence, while the bank on which 
she sat was carpeted with violets. All unobserved 
Antonio stole up behind her—’ ” 

Lest Cecil should see her face she turned to 
George and she saw his face. 

He read: ‘‘ “There came from his lips no wordy 
protestation such as formal lovers use. No elo- 
quence was his, nor did he suffer from the lack of 
it. He simply enfolded her in his manly arms.’ ” 

There was a silence. 

‘This isn’t the passage I wanted,” he informed 
them. ‘There is another much funnier, further 
on.” He turned over the leaves. 

‘Should we go in to tea?”’ said Lucy, whose voice 
remained steady. 

She led the way up the garden, Cecil following 
her, George last. She thought a disaster was 
averted. But when they entered the shrubbery it 
came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief 
enough, had been forgotten, and Cecil must go back 
for it; and George, who loved passionately, must 
blunder against her in the narrow path. 


The Disaster Within 


‘‘No—” she gasped, and, for the second time, was 
kissed by him. 

As if no more was possible, he slipped back; 
Cecil rejoined her; they reached the upper lawn 
alone. 





—245- 


Chapter XVI: Lying to George 
B= Lucy had developed since the spring. 


That is to say, she was now better able to 

stifle the emotions of which the conventions 
and the world disapprove. Though the danger 
was greater, she was not shaken by deep sobs. She 
said to Cecil, “I am not coming in to tea—tell 
mother—lI must write some letters,” and went up 
to her room. Then she prepared for action. Love 
felt and returned, love which our bodies exact and 
our hearts have transfigured, love which is the most 
real thing that we shall ever meet, reappeared now 
as the world’s enemy, and she must stifle it. 

She sent for Miss Bartlett. 

The contest lay not between love and duty. Per- 
haps there never is such a contest. It lay between 
the real and the pretended, and Lucy’s first aim was 
to defeat herself. As her brain clouded over, as 
the memory of the views grew dim and the words of 
the book died away, she returned to her old shibbo- 
leth of nerves. She ‘‘conquered her breakdown.” 
Tampering with the truth, she forgot that the truth 
had ever been. Remembering that she was en- 
gaged to Cecil, she compelled herself to confused 
remembrances of George; he was nothing to her; 
he never had been anything; he had behaved abom- 

—246— 


Lying to George 


inably; she had never encouraged him. The arm- 
our of falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, 
and hides a man not only from others, but from 
his own soul. Ina few moments Lucy was equipped 
for battle. 

‘Something too awful has happened,” she began, 
as soon as her cousin arrived. “Do you know any- 
thing about Miss Lavish’s novel?” 

Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she 
had not read the book, nor known that it was pub- 
lished; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart. 

‘There is a scene in it. ‘The hero and heroine 
make love. Do you know about that?” 

‘“Dear—?” 

“Do you know about it, please?’ she repeated. 
‘They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the dis- 
tance.” | 

“My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know noth- 
ing about it whatever.” 

‘There are violets. I cannot believe it is a co- 
incidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you 
have told her? I have thought before speaking; 
it must be you.” 

“Told her what?” she asked, with growing agi- 
tation. 

“About that dreadful afternoon in February.”’ 

Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. ‘Oh, Lucy, 
dearest girl—she hasn’t put that in her book?” 

Lucy nodded. 


‘(Not so that one could recognize it?” 


A Room with a View 
Veg? 


‘Then never—never—never more shall Eleanor 
Lavish be a friend of mine.” 

‘So you did tell?” 

“IT did just happen—when I had tea with her at 
Rome—in the course of conversation—”’ 

“But Charlotte-—-what about the promise you 
gave me when we were packing? Why did you 
tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn’t even let me tell 
mother ?”’ 

‘T will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed 
my confidence.” 

‘Why did you tell her, though? This is a most 
serious thing.” 

Why does any one tell anything? ‘The question 
is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bart- 
lett should only sigh faintly in response. She had 
done wrong—she admitted it, she only hoped that 
she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the 
strictest confidence. 

Lucy stamped with irritation. 

‘Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud 
to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson 
and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil’s back. 
Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? 
Behind Cecil’s back as we were walking up the gar- 
den.”’ 

Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and 
regrets. 

‘What is to be done now? Can you tell me?” 

—248— 


Lying to George 


“Oh, Lucy—I shall never forgive myself, never 
to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects—”’ 

“I know,” said Lucy, wincing at the word. “I 
see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what 
you meant by ‘some other source.’ You knew that 
you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not 
reliable.” 

It was Miss Bartlett’s turn to wince. 

‘‘However,” said the girl, despising her cousin’s 
shiftiness, “what’s done’s done. You have put me 
in a most awkward position. How am I to get out 
pratt” 

Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her 
energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chap- 
eron, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood 
with clasped hands while the girl worked herself 
into the necessary rage. 

‘“Ff¥e must—that man must have such a setting 
down that he won’t forget. And who’s to give it 
him? I can’t tell mother now—owing to you. 
Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught 
up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no 
one to help me. ‘That’s why I’ve sent for you. 
What’s wanted is a man with a whip.” 

Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a 
whip. 

‘“Yes—but it’s no good agreeing. What’s to be 
done? Wewomen go maundering on. What does 
a girl do when she comes across a cad?” 

“T always said he was a cad, dear. Give me 


A Room with a View 





credit for that, at all events. From the very first 
moment—when he said his father was having a 
bath.” 

“Oh, bother the credit and who’s been right or 
wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. 
George Emerson is still down the garden there, and 
is he to be left unpunished, or isn’t he? I want to 
know.” 

Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own 
exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were col- 
liding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to 
the window, and tried to detect the cad’s white 
flannels among the laurels. 

‘You were ready enough at the Bertolini when 
you rushed me off to Rome. Can’t you speak again 
to him now?” 

‘Willingly would I move heaven and earth—” 

“T want something more definite,” said Lucy 
contemptuously. ‘Will you speak to him? It is 
the least you can do, surely, considering it all hap- 
pened because you broke your word.” 

“Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of 
mine.” 

Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. 

“Yes or no, please; yes or no.”’ 

“Tt is the kind of thing that only a gentleman 
can settle.” 

George Emerson was coming up the garden with 
a tennis ball in his hand. 

‘Very well,” said Lucy, with an angry gesture. 

—250— 


Lying to George 


“No one will help me. I will speak to him myself.” 
And immediately she realized that this was what 
her cousin had intended all along. 

“Hullo, Emerson!” called Freddy from below. 
“Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any 
tea?’ And there was an irruption from the house 
on to the terrace. 

“Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire 
you—”’ 

They had gathered round George, who beckoned, 
she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the 
furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her 
soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! 
the Emersons were fine people in their way. She 
had to subdue a rush in her blood before say- 
ing: 

“Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. 
The others are going down the garden. Come. 
Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you 
in the room, of course.”’ 

“Lucy, do you mind doing it?” 

‘How can you ask such a ridiculous question?” 

‘Poor Lucy—” She stretched out her hand. 
“T seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever 
I go.” Lucy nodded. She remembered their last 
evening at Florence—the packing, the candle, the 
shadow of Miss Bartlett’s toque on the door. She 
was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. 
Eluding her cousin’s caress, she led the way down- 
stairs. 


A Room with a View 


‘Try the jam,” Freddy was saying. “The jam’s 
jolly good.”’ 

George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing 
up and down the dining-room. As she entered he 
stopped, and said: 

‘‘No—nothing to eat.” 

‘You go down to the others,” said Lucy; “Char- 
lotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. 
Where’s mother?” 

‘‘She’s started on her Sunday writing. She’s in 
the drawing-room.” 

‘“That’s all right. You go away.” 

He went off singing. 

Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who 
was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and 
pretended to read. 

She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. 
She just said: “I can’t have it, Mr. Emerson. I 
cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and 
never come into it again as long as I live here’ — 
flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. “I 
hate a row. Go please.” 

What—’’ 

‘No discussion.” 

“But I can’t—” 

She shook her head. ‘Go, please. I do not 
want to call in Mr. Vyse.” 

“You don’t mean,” he said, absolutely ignoring 
Miss Bartlett—‘‘you don’t mean that you are going 
to marry that man?” 

—252— 


Lying to George 


The line was unexpected. 

She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity 
wearied her. “You are merely ridiculous,’ she 
said quietly. 

Then his words rose gravely over hers: ‘You 
cannot live with Vyse. He’s only for an acquain- 
tance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He 
should know no one intimately, least of all a 
woman.” 

It was a new light on Cecil’s character. 

‘Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling 
tired ?”” 

“T can scarcely discuss—” 

“No, but have you ever? He is the sort who 
are all right so long as they keep to things— 
books, pictures—but kill when they come to people. 
That’s why I’ll speak out through all this muddle 
even now. It’s shocking enough to lose you in any 
case, but generally a man must deny himself joy, and 
I would have held back if your Cecil had been a 
different person. I would never have let myself go. 
But I saw him first in the National Gallery, when he 
winced because my father mispronounced the names 
of great painters. Then he brings us here, and we 
find it is to play some silly trick on a kind neighbour. 
That is the man all over—playing tricks on people, 
on the most sacred form of life that he can find. 
Next, I meet you together, and find him protecting 
and teaching you and your mother to be shocked, 
when it was for you to settle whether you were 


A Room with a View 





shocked or no. Cecil all over again. He daren’t 
let a woman decide. He’s the type who’s kept 
Europe back for a thousand years. Every mo- 
ment of his life he’s forming you, telling you what’s 
charming or amusing or ladylike, telling you what 
a man thinks womanly; and you, you of all women, 
listen to his voice instead of to your own. So it 
was at the Rectory, when I met you both again; so 
it has been the whole of this afternoon. ‘Therefore 
—not ‘therefore I kissed you,’ because the book 
made me do that, and I wish to goodness I had more 
self-control. Dm not ashamed. I don’t apologize. 
But it has frightened you, and you may not have 
noticed that I love you. Or would you have told 
me to go, and dealt with a tremendous thing so 
lightly? But therefore—therefore I settled to 
fight him.” 

Lucy thought of a very good remark. 

“You say Mr. Vyse wants me to listen to him, 
Mr. Emerson. Pardon me for suggesting that you 
have caught the habit.” 

And he took the shoddy reproof and touched it 
into immortality. He said: 

“Yes, I have,” and sank down as if suddenly 
weary. “I’m the same kind of brute at bottom. 
This desire to govern a woman—it lies very deep, 
and men and women must fight it together before 
they shall enter the garden. But I do love you— 
surely in a better way than he does.” He thought. 
“Yes—really in a better way. I want you to have 


-254— 


Lying to George 





your own thoughts even when I hold you in my 
arms.” He stretched them towards her. ‘Lucy, 
be quick—there’s no time for us to talk now— 
come to me as you came in the spring, and after- 
wards I will be gentle and explain. I have cared 
for you since that man died. I cannot live without 
you. ‘No good,’ I thought; ‘she is marrying some 
one else’; but I meet you again when all the world 
is glorious water and sun. As you came through 
the wood I saw that nothing else mattered. I 
called. I wanted to live and have my chance of 
joy.” 

“And Mr. Vyse?” said Lucy, who kept com- 
mendably calm. “Does he not matter? That I 
love Cecil and shall be his wife shortly? A de- 
tail of no importance, I suppose ?”’ 

But he stretched his arms over the table towards 
her. | 

‘May I ask what you intend to gain by this ex- 
hibition?” 

He said: “It is our last chance. I shall do all 
that I can.’ And as if he had done all else, he 
turned to Miss Bartlett, who sat like some portent 
against the skies of the evening. “‘You wouldn't 
stop us this second time if you understood,” he 
said. “I have been into the dark, and I am going 
back into it, unless you will try to understand.” 

Her long, narrow head drove backwards and for- 
wards, as though demolishing some invisible ob- 
stacle. She did not answer. 


A Room with a View 





“It is being young,” he said quietly, picking up 
his racquet from the floor and preparing to go. 
“Tt is being certain that Lucy cares for me really. 
It is that love and youth matter intellectually.” 

In silence the two women watched him. His 
last remark, they knew, was nonsense, but was he 
going after it or not? Would not he, the cad, the 
charlatan, attempt a more dramatic finish? No. 
He was apparently content. He left them, care- 
fully closing the front-door; and when they looked 
through the hall window, they saw him go up the 
drive and begin to climb the slopes of withered 
fern behind the house. ‘Their tongues were loosed, 
and they burst into stealthy rejoicings. 

“Oh, Lucia—come back here—oh, what an aw- 
ful man!” 

Lucy had no reaction—at least, not yet. ‘Well, 
he amuses me,” she said. “Either I’m mad, or 
else he is, and I’m inclined to think it’s the latter. 
(One more fuss through with you, Charlotte. 
Many thanks. I think, though, that this is the 
last. My admirer will hardly trouble me again.” 

And Miss Bartlett, too, essayed the roguish: 

‘Well, it isn’t every one who could boast such 
a conquest, dearest, is it? Oh, one oughtn’t to 
laugh, really. It might have been very serious. 
But you were so sensible and brave—so unlike the 
girls of my day.” 

‘Let’s go down to them.”’ 

But, once in the open air, she paused. Some 

—256— 


Lying to George 


emotion—pity, terror, love, but the emotion was 
strong—seized her, and she was aware of autumn. 
Summer was ending, and the evening brought her 
odours of decay, the more pathetic because they 
were’ reminiscent of spring. ‘That something or 
other mattered intellectually? A leaf, violently 
agitated, danced past her, while other leaves lay 
motionless. That the earth was hastening to re- 
enter darkness, and the shadows of those trees 
to creep over Windy Corner? 

“Hullo, Lucy! There’s still light enough for 
another set, if you two’ll hurry.” 

“Mr. Emerson has had to go.’ 

“What a nuisance! nied Sie the four. I 
say, Cecil, do play, do, there’s a good chap. It’s 
Floyd’s last day. Do play tennis with us, just this 
once.” | 

Cecil’s voice came: “My dear Freddy, I am no 
athlete. As you well remarked this very morn- 
ing, ‘There are some chaps who are no good for 
anything but books’; I plead guilty to being such a 
chap, and will not inflict myself on you.” 

The scales fell from Lucy’s eyes. How had she 
stood Cecil for a moment? He was absolutely 
intolerable, and the same evening she broke off her 
engagement. 


Chapter XVII: Lying to Cecil 


E, was bewildered. He had nothing to say. 
H He was not even angry, but stood, with a 
glass of whiskey between his hands, trying 

to think what had led her to such a conclusion. 

She had chosen the moment before bed, when, 
in accordance with their bourgeois habit, she always 
dispensed drinks to the men. Freddy and Mr. 
Floyd were sure to retire with their glasses, while 
Cecil invariably lingered, sipping at his while she 
locked up the sideboard. 

“Tam very sorry about it,” she said; “I have 
carefully thought things over. We are too differ- 
ent. I must ask you to release me, and try to for- 
get that there ever was such a foolish gif’ 

It was a suitable speech, but she was more angry 
than sorry, and her voice showed it. 

“Different—how—how—” 

‘“T haven’t had a really good education, for one 
thing,” she continued, still on her knees by the 
sideboard. ‘‘My Italian trip came too late, and 
I am forgetting all that I learnt there. I shall 
never be able to talk to your friends, or behave 
as a wife of yours should.” 

“T don’t understand you. You aren’t like your- 
self. You're tired. Lucy.” 

| —258— 


Lying to Cecil 





“Tired!” she retorted, kindling at once. ‘That 
is exactly like you. You always think women don’t 
mean what they say.” 

“Well, you sound tired, as if something has wor- 
ried you.” 

“What if I do? It doesn’t prevent me from 
realizing the truth. I can’t marry you, and you 
will thank me for saying so some day.” 

“You had that bad headache yesterday— All 
right’—for she had exclaimed indignantly: ‘“‘I see 
it’s much more than headaches. But give me a 
moment’s time.’’ He closed his eyes. “You must 
excuse me if I say stupid things, but my brain has 
gone to pieces. Part of it lives three minutes 
back, when I was sure that you loved me, and the 
other part—lI find it difficult—I am likely to say 
the wrong thing.” 

It struck her that he was not behaving so badly, 
and her irritation increased. She again desired a 
struggle, not a discussion. To bring on the crisis, 
she said: 

“There are days when one sees clearly, and this 
is one of them. ‘Things must come to a breaking- 
point some time, and it happens to be to-day. If 
you want to know, quite a little thing decided me 
to speak to you—-when you wouldn’t play tennis 
with Freddy.” 

“T never do play tennis,’”’ said Cecil, painfully 
bewildered; ‘‘I never could play. I don’t under- 
stand a word you say.”’ 


—259- 


A Room with a View 





“You can play well enough to make up a four. 
I thought it abominably selfish of you.” 3 

‘No, I can’t—well, never mind the tennis. Why 
couldn’t you—couldn’t you have warned me if 
you felt anything wrong? You talked of our wed- 
ding at lunch—at least, you let me talk.” 

‘“T knew you wouldn’t understand,” said Lucy 
quite crossly. “I might have known there would 
have been these dreadful explanations. Of course, 
it isn’t the tennis—that was only the last straw 
to all I have been feeling for weeks. Surely it was 
better not to speak until I felt certain.” She de- 
veloped this position. ‘Often before I have won- 
dered if I was fitted for your wife—for instance, 
in London; and are you fitted to be my husband? 
I don’t think so. You don’t like Freddy, nor my 
mother. ‘There was always a lot against our en- 
gagement, Cecil, but all our relations seemed 
pleased, and we met so often, and it was no good 
mentioning it until—well, until all things came to a 
point. They have to-day. I see clearly. I must 
speak. That’s all.” 

“IT cannot think you were right,” said Cecil gently. 
“IT cannot tell why, but though all that you say 
sounds true, I feel that you are not treating me 
fairly. It’s all too horrible.” 

‘““What’s the good of a scene?” 

‘No good. But surely I have a right to hear 
a little more.”’ 

He put down his glass and opened the window. 

—260— 


Lying to Cecil 





From where she knelt, jangling her keys, she could 
see a slit of darkness, and, peering into it, as if 
it would tell him that “little more,’ his long, 
thoughtful face. 

‘Don’t open the window; and you'd better draw 
the curtain, too; Freddy or any one might be out- 
side.” He obeyed. “I really think we had better 
go to bed, if you don’t mind. I shall only say 
things that will make me unhappy afterwards. As 
you say it is all too horrible, and it is no good talk- 
ing.” 

But to Cecil, now that he was about to lose her, 
she seemed each moment more desirable. He 
looked at her, instead of through her, for the first 
time since they were engaged. From a Leonardo 
she had become a living woman, with mysteries 
and forces of her own, with qualities that even 
eluded art. His brain recovered from the shock, 
and, in a burst of genuine devotion, he cried: ‘‘But 
I love you, and I did think you loved me!” 

“T did not,” she said. “I thought I did at first. 
I am sorry, and ought to have refused you this 
last time, too.” 

He began to walk up and down the room, and 
she grew more and more vexed at his dignified be- 
haviour. She had counted on his being petty. It 
would have made things easier for her. By a crue) 
irony she was drawing out all that was finest in his 
disposition. 

“You don’t love me, evidently. I dare say you 

—261-— 


A Room with a View 





are right not to. But it would hurt a little less if 
I knew why.” 

‘‘Because’—a phrase came to her, and she ac- 
cepted it—“you’re the sort who can’t know any 
one intimately.” 

A horrified look came into his eyes. 

“I don’t mean exactly that. But you will ques- 
tion me, though I beg you not to, and I must say 
something. It is that, more or less. When we 
were only acquaintances, you let me be myself, 
but now you're always protecting me.” Her voice 
swelled. ‘I won’t be protected. I will choose 
for myself what is ladylike and right. To shield 
me is an insult. Can’t I be trusted to face the 
truth but I must get it second-hand through you? 
A’ woman’s place! You despise my mother—I 
know you do—because she’s conventional and 
bothers over puddings; but, oh goodness!’’—she 
rose to her feet—‘‘conventional, Cecil, you’re that, 
for you may understand beautiful things, but you 
don’t know how to use them; and you wrap your- 
self up in art and books and music, and would try 
to wrap up me. I won't be stifled, not by the most 
glorious music, for people are more glorious, and 
you hide them from me. That’s why I break off 
my engagement. You were all right as long as you 
kept to things, but when you came to people—” 
She stopped. 

There was a pause. ‘Then Cecil said with great 
emotion: 

—262— 


Lying to Cecil 





hf is’ true.” 

“True on the whole,’ she corrected, full of 
some vague shame. 

“True, every word. It is a revelation. It is 
ES 

“Anyhow, those are my reasons for not being 
your wife.” 

He repeated: “‘ ‘The sort that can know no one 
intimately.’ It is true. I fell to pieces the very 
first day we were engaged. I behaved like a cad 
to Beebe and to your brother. You are even 
greater than I thought.” She withdrew a step. 
“Tm not going to worry you. You are far too 
good to me. [I shall never forget your insight; 
and, dear, I only blame you for this: you might 
have warned me in the early stages, before you 
felt you wouldn’t marry me, and so have given 
me a chance to improve. I have never known 
you till this evening. I have just used you as a 
peg for my silly notions of what a woman should 
be. But this evening you are a different person: 
new thoughts—even a new voice—”’ 

‘What do you mean by a new voice?” she asked, 
seized with incontrollable anger. 

“I mean that a new person seems speaking 
through you,” said he. 

Then she lost her balance. She cried: “If you 
think I am in love with some one else, you are very 
much mistaken.”’ 


—263- 


A Room with a View 





“Of course I don’t think that. You are not that 
kind, Lucy.” 

‘Oh, yes, you do think it. It’s your old idea, 
the idea that has kept Europe back—I mean the 
idea that women are always thinking of men. If 
a girl breaks off her engagement, every one says: 
‘Oh, she had some one else in her mind; she hopes 
to get some one else.’ It’s disgusting, brutal! As 
if a girl can’t break it off for the sake of freedom.” 

He answered reverently: “I may have said that 
in the past. I shall never say it again. You have 
taught me better.”’ 

She began to redden, and pretended to examine 
the windows again. 

“Of course, there is no question of ‘some one 
else’ in this, no ‘jilting’ or any such nauseous stupid- 
ity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my words 
suggested that there was. I only meant that there 
was a force in you that I hadn’t known of up till 
now.” 

‘All right, Cecil, that will do. Don’t apologize 
tome. It was my mistake.” 

‘Tt is a question between ideals, yours and mine 
—pure abstract ideals, and yours are the nobler. 
I was bound up in the old vicious notions, and all 
the time you were splendid and new.” His voice 
broke. ‘I must actually thank you for what you 
have done—for showing me what I really am. Sol- 
emnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. 
Will you shake hands?” 

—264— 


Lying to Cecil 





“Of course I will,” said Lucy, twisting up her 
other hand in the curtains. ‘‘Good-night, Cecil. 
Good-bye. That’s all right. I’m sorry about it. 
Thank you very much for your gentleness.” 

“Let me light your candle, shall I?” 

They went into the hall. 

“Thank you. Good-night again. God _ bless 
you, Lucy!” 

“Good-bye, Cecil.” 

She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shad- 
ows from the banisters passed over her face like 
the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong 
in his renunciation, and gave her a look of mem- 
orable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an 
ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love became 
him like the leaving of it. 

She could never marry. In the tumult of her 
soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she 
must some day believe in herself. She must be 
one of the women whom she had praised so elo- 
quently, who care for liberty and not for men; she 
must forget that George loved her, that George 
had been thinking through her and gained her this 
honourable release, that George had gone away 
into—what was it?—the darkness. 

She put out the lamp. 

It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of 
that to feel. She gave up trying to understand 
herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, 
who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and 

—265— 


A Room with a View 





march to their destiny by catch-words. ‘The armies 
are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they have 
yielded to the only enemy that matters—the enemy 
within. They have sinned against passion and 
truth, and vain will be their strife after virtue. As 
the years pass, they are censured. Their pleas- 
antry and their piety show cracks, their wit be- 
comes cynicism, their unselfishness hypocrisy; they 
feel and produce discomfort wherever they go. 
They have sinned against Eros and against Pallas 
Athene, and not by any heavenly intervention, but 
by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deities 
will be avenged. 

Lucy entered this army when she pretended to 
George that she did not love him, and pretended 
to Cecil that she loved no one. The night re- 
ceived her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty 
years before. 


—266— 


Chapter XVIII: Lying to Mr. Beebe, 
Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and the 
Servants 


INDY CORNER lay, not on the sum- 
W mit of the ridge, but a few hundred feet 
down the southern slope, at the springing 
of one of the great buttresses that supported the 
hill. On either side of it was a shallow ravine, 
filled with ferns and pine-trees, and down the ravine 
on the left ran the highway into the Weald. 
Whenever Mr. Beebe crossed the ridge and 
caught sight of these noble dispositions of the earth, 
and, poised in the middle of them, Windy Corner, 
—he laughed. The situation was so glorious, the 
house so commonplace, not to say impertinent. 
The late Mr. Honeychurch had affected the cube, 
because it gave him the most accommodation for 
his money, and the only addition made by his widow 
had been a small turret, shaped like a rhinoceros’ 
horn, where she could sit in wet weather and watch 
the carts going up and down the road. So imper- 
tinent—and yet the house ‘“‘did,’’ for it was the 
home of people who loved their surroundings hon- 
estly. Other houses in the neighborhood had been 
built by expensive architects, over others their in- 
mates had fidgeted sedulously, yet all these sug- 
gested the accidental, the temporary; while Windy 
—267— 


A Room with a View 





Corner seemed as inevitable as an ugliness of 
Nature’s own creation. One might laugh at the 
house, but one never shuddered. 

Mr. Beebe was bicycling over this Monday after- 
noon with a piece of gossip. He had heard from 
the Miss Alans. These admirable ladies, since — 
they could not go to Cissie Villa, had changed their 
plans. They were going to Greece instead. 

“Since Florence did my poor sister so much 
good,’’ wrote Miss Catharine, ‘“‘we do not see why 
we should not try Athens this winter. Of course, 
Athens is a plunge, and the doctor has ordered 
her special digestive bread; but, after all, we can 
take that with us, and it is only getting first into 
a steamer and then into a train. But is there an 
English Church?” And the letter went on to say: 
‘IT do not expect we shall go any further than 
Athens, but if you knew of a really comfortable 
pension at Constantinople, we should be so grate- 
ful.” . 

Lucy would enjoy this letter, and the smile 
with which Mr. Beebe greeted Windy Corner was 
partly for her. She would see the fun of it, and 
some of its beauty, for she must see some beauty. 
Though she was hopeless about pictures, and though 
she dressed so unevenly—oh, that cerise frock yes- 
terday at church!—she must see some beauty in 
life, or she could not play the piano as she did. 
He had a theory that musicians are incredibly com- 
plex, and know far-less than other artists what 

—268— 


Lying to Mr. Beebe 





they want and what they are; that they puzzle 
themselves as well as their friends; that their 
psychology is a modern development, and has not 
yet been understood. ‘This theory, had he known 
it, had possibly just been illustrated by facts. Ig- 
norant of the events of yesterday he was only riding 
over to get some tea, to see his niece, and to observe 
whether Miss Honeychurch saw anything beautiful 
in the desire of two old ladies to visit Athens. 

A carriage was drawn up outside Windy Corner, 
and just as he caught sight of the house it started, 
bowled up the drive, and stopped abruptly when 
it reached the main road. ‘Therefore it must be 
the horse, who always expected people to walk up 
the hill in case they tired him. The door opened 
obediently, and two men emerged, whom Mr. Beebe 
recognized as ‘Cecil and Freddy. They were an 
odd couple to go driving; but he saw a trunk be- 
side the coachman’s legs. Cecil, who wore a bowler, 
must be going away, while Freddy—(a cap)—was 
seeing him to the station. They walked rapidly, 
taking the short cuts, and reached the summit while 
the carriage was still pursuing the windings of the 
road. 

They shook hands with the clergyman, but did 
not speak. 

“So you’re off for a minute, Mr. Vyse?” he 
asked. 

Cecil said, “Yes,”’ while Freddy edged away. 

“T was coming to show you this delightful letter 

-—269— 


A Room with a View 


from those friends of Miss Honeychurch’s.” He 
quoted from it. “Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it 
romance? most certainly they will go to Constanti- 
nople. They are taken in a snare that cannot fail. 
They will end by going round the world.” 

Cecil listened civilly, and said he was sure that 
Lucy would be amused and interested. 

‘‘Isn’t Romance capricious! I never notice it in 
you young people; you do nothing but play lawn 
tennis, and say that romance is dead, while the Miss 
Alans are struggling with all the weapons of propri- 
ety against the terrible thing. ‘A really comfort- 
able pension at Constantinople!’ So they call it out 
of decency, but in their hearts they want a pension 
with magic windows opening on the foam of perilous 
seas in fairyland forlorn! No ordinary view will 
content the Miss Alans. They want the Pension 
Keats.” 

‘“T’m awfully sorry to interrupt, Mr. Beebe,” 
said Freddy, ‘‘but have you any matches?” 

“T have,” said Cecil, and it did not escape Mr. 
Beebe’s notice that he spoke to the boy more kindly. 

‘You have never met these Miss Alans, have you, 
Mr. Vyse?”’ 

“Never.” 

“Then you don’t see the wonder of this Greek 
visit. I haven’t been to Greece myself, and don’t 
mean to go, and I can’t imagine any of my friends 
going. It is altogether too big for our little lot. 
Don’t you think so? Italy is just about as much as 

—270— | 


Lying to Mr. Beebe 


we can manage. Italy is heroic, but Greece is god- 
like or devilish—I am not sure which, and in either 
case absolutely out of our suburban focus. All 
right, Freddy—I am not being clever, upon my word 
I am not—I took the idea from another fellow; 
and give me those matches when you’ve done with 
them.” He lit a cigarette, and went on talking to 
the two young men. “I was saying, if our poor 
little Cockney lives must have a background, let it be 
Italian. Big enough in all conscience. The ceiling 
of the Sistine Chapel forme. ‘There the contrast is 
just as much as I can realize. But not the Parthe- 
non, not the frieze of Phidias at any price; and here 
comes the victoria.” 

“You're quite right,” said Cecil. “Greece is 
not for our little lot”; and he got in. Freddy fol- 
lowed, nodding to the clergyman, whom he trusted 
not to be pulling one’s leg, really. And before they 
had gone a dozen yards he jumped out, and came 
running back for Vyse’s match-box, which had not 
been returned. As he took it, he said: “I’m so 
glad you only talked about books. Cecil’s hard hit. 
Lucy won’t marry him. If you’d gone on about her, 
as you did about them, he might have broken 
down.” 

“But when—’”’ 

“Late last night. I must go.” 

“Perhaps they won’t want me down there.” 

‘“‘Nioo—go on. Good-bye.” 

‘Thank goodness!”’ exclaimed Mr. Beebe to him- 

. 80 Ad a 


A Room with:a View 





self, and struck the saddle of his bicycle approvingly. 
“It was the one foolish thing she ever did. Oh, 
what a glorious riddance!” And, after a little 
thought, he negotiated the slope into Windy Corner, 
light of heart. The house was again as it ought 
to be—cut off for ever from Cecil’s pretentious 
world. 

He would find Miss Minnie down in the garden. 

In the drawing-room Lucy was tinkling at a 
Mozart Sonata. He hesitated a moment, but went 
down the garden as requested. ‘There he found a 
mournful company. It was a blustering day, and 
the wind had taken and broken the dahlias. Mrs. 
Honeychurch, who looked cross, was tying them up, 
while Miss Bartlett, unsuitably dressed, impeded her 
with offers of assistance. At a little distance stood 
Minnie and the ‘‘garden-child,’ a minute importa- 
tion, each holding either end of a long piece of bass. 

“Oh, how do you do, Mr. Beebe? Gracious 
what a mess everything is! Look at my scarlet 
pompons, and the wind blowing your skirts about, 
and the ground so hard that not a prop will stick in, 
and then the carriage having to go out, when I had 
counted on having Powell, who—give every one 
their due—does tie up dahlias properly.” 

Evidently Mrs. Honeychurch was shattered. 

“How do you do?” said Miss Bartlett, with a 
meaning glance, as though conveying that more 
than dahlias had been broken off by the autumn 
gales. 

42.72— 


Lying to Mr. Beebe 





“Here, Lennie, the bass,” cried Mrs. Honey- 
church. The garden-child, who did not know what 
bass was, stood rooted to the path with horror. 
Minnie slipped to her uncle and whispered that every 
one was very disagreeable to-day, and that it was 
not her fault if dahlia-strings would tear longways 
instead of across. 

‘Come for a walk with me,” he told her. “You 
have worried them as muchas they can stand. Mrs. 
Honeychurch, I only called in aimlessly. I shall 
take her up to tea at the Beehive Tavern, if I 
miay. > 

“Oh, must you? Yes do.—Not the scissors, 
thank you, Charlotte, when both my hands are full 
already— I’m perfectly certain that the orange 
cactus will go before I can get to it.”’ 

Mr. Beebe, who was an adept at relieving situ- 
ations, invited Miss Bartlett to accompany them to 
this mild festivity. 

‘Yes, Charlotte, I don’t want you—do go; there’s 
nothing to stop about for, either in the house or out 
of it.” 

Miss Bartlett said that her duty lay in the dahlia- 
bed, but when she had exasperated every one, except 
Minnie, by a refusal, she turned round and exasper- 
ated Minnie by an acceptance. As they walked up 
the garden, the orange cactus fell, and Mr. Beebe’s 
last vision was of the garden-child clasping it like 
a lover, his dark head buried in a wealth of blos- 
som. 


A Room with a View 


“It is terrible, this havoc among the flowers,” he 
remarked. 

‘It is always terrible when the promise of months 
is destroyed in a moment,” enunciated Miss Bartlett. 

‘‘Perhaps we ought to send Miss Honeychurch 
down to her mother. Or will she come with us?” 

‘T think we had better leave Lucy to herself, and 
to her own pursuits.”’ 

“They're angry with Miss Honeychurch because 
she was late for breakfast,’ whispered Minnie, 
‘‘and Floyd has gone, and Mr. Vyse has gone, and 
Freddy won't play with me. In fact, Uncle Arthur, 
the house is not at all what it was yesterday.” 

‘Don’t be a prig,” said her Uncle Arthur. “Go 
and put on your boots.” 

He stepped into the drawing-room, where Lucy 
was still attentively pursuing the Sonatas of Mozart. 
She stopped when he entered. 

‘How do you do? Miss Bartlett and Minnie 
are coming with me to tea at the Beehive. Would 
you come too?” 

“T don’t think I will, thank you.” 

‘‘No, I didn’t suppose you would care to much.” 

Lucy turned to the piano and struck a few chords. 

‘Ffow delicate those Sonatas are!” said Mr. 
Beebe, though at the bottom of his heart, he thought 
them silly little things. 

Lucy passed into Schumann. 

‘Miss Honeychurch!”’ 

MY es.” 


ae 


Lying to Mr. Beebe 





~ “T met them on the hill. Your brother told me.” 

“Oh he did?’ She sounded annoyed. Mr. 
Beebe felt hurt, for he had thought that she would 
like him to be told. 

“T needn’t say that it will go no further.” 

‘Mother, Charlotte, Cecil, Freddy, you,” said 
Lucy, playing a note for each person who knew, and 
then playing a sixth note. 

“If you'll let me say so, I am very glad, and I 
am certain that you have done the right thing.” 

‘So I hoped other people would think, but they 
don’t seem to.”’ 

“T could see that Miss Bartlett thought it unwise.” 

‘So does mother. Mother minds dreadfully.” 

“IT am very sorry for that,” said Mr. Beebe with 
feeling. 

Mrs. Honeychurch, who hated all changes, did 
mind, but not nearly as much as her daughter pre- 
tended, and only for the minute. It was really a 
ruse of Lucy’s to justify her despondency—a ruse 
of which she was not herself conscious, for she 
was marching in the armies of darkness. 

‘And Freddy minds.” 

“Still, Freddy never hit it off with Vyse much, 
did he? I gathered that he disliked the engage- 
ment, and felt it might separate him from you.” 

“Boys are so odd.” 

Minnie could be heard arguing with Miss Bart- 
lett through the floor. ‘Tea at the Beehive appar- 
ently involved a complete change of apparel. Mr. 


A Room with a View 





Beebe saw that Lucy—very properly—did not wish 
to discuss her action, so after a sincere expression 
of sympathy, he said, ‘I have had an absurd letter 
from Miss Alan. ‘That was really what brought me 
over. I thought it might amuse you all.” 

‘How delightful!” said Lucy, in a dull voice. 

For the sake of something to do, he began to 
read her the letter. After a few words her eyes 
grew alert, and soon she interrupted him with— 
“Going abroad? When do they start?” 

‘“‘Next week, I gather.” 

‘Did Freddy say whether he was driving straight 
back ?”’ 

‘No, he didn’t.” 

‘Because I do hope he won’t go gossiping.” 

So she did want to talk about her broken engage- 
ment. Always complaisant, he put the letter away. 
But she at once exclaimed in a high voice, “Oh, do 
tell me more about the Miss Alans! How perfectly 
splendid of them to go abroad!” 

‘T want them to start from Venice, and go in a 
cargo steamer down the Illyrian coast!” 

She laughed heartily. ‘Oh, delightful! I wish 
they'd take me.” | 

‘Has Italy filled you with the fever of travel? 
Perhaps George Emerson is right. He says that 
‘Italy is only an euphuism for Fate.’ ” 

“Oh, not Italy, but Constantinople. I have al- 
ways longed to go to Constantinople. Constanti- 
nople is practically Asia, isn’t it?” 


. 42'76— 


Lying to Mr. Beebe 





Mr. Beebe reminded her that Constantinople was 
still unlikely, and that the Miss Alans only aimed at 
Athens, “with Delphi, perhaps, if the roads are 
safe.” But this made no difference to her enthusi- 
asm. She had always longed to go to Greece even 
more, it seemed. He saw, to his surprise, that she 
was apparently serious. 

“I didn’t realize that you and the Miss Alans 
were still such friends, after Cissie Villa.” 

“Oh, that’s nothing; I assure you Cissie Villa’s 
nothing to me; I would give anything to go with 
them.”’ 

“Would your mother spare you again so soon? 
You have scarcely been home three months.” 

“She must spare me!” cried Lucy, in growing ex- 
citement. “I simply must go away. I have to.” 
She ran her fingers hysterically through her hair. 
“Don’t you see that I have to go away? I didn’t 
realize at the time—and of course I want to see Con- 
stantinople so particularly.” 

‘You mean that since you have broken off your 
engagement you feel—” 

‘Yes, yes. I knew you'd understand.” 

Mr. Beebe did not quite understand. Why 
could not Miss Honeychurch repose in the bosom of 
her family? Cecil had evidently taken up the dig- 
nified line, and was not going to annoy her. ‘Then 
it struck him that her family itself might be annoy- 
ing. He hinted this to her, and she accepted the 
hint eagerly. 


A Room with a View 


“Yes, of course; to go to Constantinople until 
they are used to the idea and everything has calmed 
down.” 

“IT am afraid it has been a bothersome business,’ 
he said gently. 

“No, not at all. Cecil was very kind indeed; 
only—I had better tell you the whole truth, since 
you have heard a little—it was that he is so master- 
ful. I found that he wouldn’t let me go my own 
way. He would improve me in places where | can’t 
be improved. Cecil won’t let a woman decide for 
herself—in fact, he daren’t. What nonsense I do 
talk! but that is the kind of thing.” 

‘Tt is what I gathered from my own observation 
of Mr. Vyse; it is what I gather from all that I have 
known of you. I do sympathize and agree most 
profoundly. I agree so much that you must let me 
make one little criticism: Is it worth while rush- 
ing off to Greece?” 

‘But I must go somewhere!” she cried. “I have 
been worrying all the morning, and here comes the 
very thing.’’ She struck her knees with clenched 
fists, and repeated: “I must! And the time [ 
shall have with mother, and all the money she spent 
on me last spring. You all think much too highly 
of me. I wish you weren’t so kind.” At this mo- 
ment Miss Bartlett entered, and her nervousness in- 
creased. “I must get away, ever so far. I must 
know my own mind and where I want to go.” 

‘‘Come along; tea, tea, tea,’ said Mr. Beebe, and 

“—278— 


Lying to Mr. Beebe 





hustled his guests out of the front-door. He hus- 
tled them so quickly that he forgot his hat. When 
he returned for it he heard, to his relief and sur- 
prise, the tinkling of a Mozart Sonata. 

‘She is playing again,” he said to Miss Bartlett. 

“Lucy can always play,” was the acid reply. 
~ “One is very thankful that she has such a resource. 
She is evidently much worried, as, of course, she 
ought to be. I know all about it. The marriage 
was so near that it must have been a hard struggle 
before she could wind herself up to speak.” 

Miss Bartlett gave a kind of wriggle, and he pre- 
pared for a discussion. He had never fathomed 
‘Miss Bartlett. As he had put it to himself at Flor- 
ence, “she might yet reveal depths of strangeness, 
if not of meaning.’ But she was so unsympathetic 
that she must be reliable. He assumed that much, 
and he had no hesitation in discussing Lucy with her. 
Minnie was fortunately collecting ferns. 

She opened the discussion with: ‘We had much 
better let the matter drop.” 

‘I wonder.” 

“Tt is of the highest importance that there should 
be no gossip in Summer Street. It would be death 
to gossip about Mr. Vyse’s dismissal at the present 
moment.” 

Mr. Beebe rased his eyebrows. Death is a strong 
word—surely too strong. ‘There was no question 
of tragedy. He said: “Of course, Miss Honey- 
church will make the fact public in her own way, and 


A Room with a View 





when she chooses. Freddy only told me because 
he knew she would not mind.” 

‘IT know,” said Miss Bartlett civilly. “Yet 
Freddy ought not to have told even you. One 
cannot be too careful.” 

‘‘Quite so.” 

“T do implore absolute secrecy. A chance word 
to a chattering friend, and—” 

“Exactly.” He was used to these nervous old 
maids and to the exaggerated importance that they 
attach to words. A rector lives in a web of petty 
secrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wiser 
he is the less he will regard them. He will change 
the subject, as did Mr. Beebe, saying cheerfully: 
‘“Have you heard from any Bertolini people lately? 
I believe you keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odd 
how we of that pension, who seemed such a fortui- 
tous collection, have been working into one another’s 
lives. Two, three, four, six of us—no, eight; I 
had forgotten the Emersons—have kept more or 
less in touch. We must really give the Signora a 
testimonial.” 

And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme, 
they walked up the hill in a silence which was only 
broken by the rector naming some fern. On the 
summit they paused. ‘The sky had grown wilder 
since he stood there last hour, giving to the land a 
tragic greatness that is rare in Surrey. Grey clouds 
were charging across tissues of white, which 
stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until 

_—280-— 


Lying to Mr. Beebe 





through their final layers there gleamed a hint of the 
disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The 
wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed 
insuficient for those vast operations in heaven. 
The weather was breaking up, breaking, broken, and 
it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural 
that equips such crises with the salvos of angelic 
artillery. Mr. Beebe’s eyes rested on Windy Cor- 
ner, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. No smile 
came to his lips, and, changing the subject again, 
he said: ‘‘We shan’t have rain, but we shall have 
darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last 
night was appalling.” 

They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five 
o'clock. ‘That amiable hostelry possesses a veran- 
dah, in which the young and the unwise do dearly 
love to sit, while guests of more mature years seek 
a pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table 
comfortably. Mr. Beebe saw that Miss Bartlett 
would be cold if she sat out, and that Minnie would 
be dull if she sat in, so he proposed a division of 
forces. They would hand the child her food 
through the window. Thus he was incidentally en- 
abled to discuss the fortunes of Lucy. 

“T have been thinking, Miss Bartlett,” he said, 
“and, unless you very much object, I would like to 
reopen that discussion.’ She fowed. ‘Nothing 
about the past. I know little and care less about 
that; I am absolutely certain that it is to your cous- 
in’s credit. She has acted loftily and rightly, and it 

—281- 


A Room with a View 





is like her gentle modesty to say that we think too 
highly of her. But the future. Seriously, what do 
you think of this Greek plan?” He pulled out the 
letter again. “I don’t know whether you over- 
heard, but she wants to join the Miss Alans in their 
mad career. It’s all—I can’t explain—it’s wrong.” 

Miss Bartlett read the letter in silence, laid it 
down, seemed to hesitate, and then read it again. 

‘‘T can’t see the point of it myself.” 

To his astonishment, she replied: ‘There I can- 
not agree with you. In it I spy Lucy’s salvation.” 

‘Really. Now, why?” 

‘She wanted to leave Windy Corner.” 

“IT know—but it seems so odd, so unlike her, so— 
I was going to say—selfish.”’ 

‘Tt is natural, surely—after such painful scenes— 
that she should desire a change.” 

Here, apparently, was one of those points that 
the male intellect misses. Mr. Beebe exclaimed: 
‘So she says herself, and since another lady agrees 
with her, I must own that I am partially convinced. 
Perhaps she must have a change. I have no sisters 
or—and I don’t understand these things. But why 
need she go as far as Greece?” 

“You may well ask that,” replied Miss Bartlett, 
who was evidently interested, and had almost 
dropped her evasive manner. ‘Why Greece? 
(What is it, Minnie dear—jam?) Why not Tun- 
bridge Wells? Oh, Mr. Beebe! I had a long and 
most unsatisfactory interview with dear Lucy this 

—~282— 


Lying to Mr. Beebe 





morning. I cannot help her. I will say no more. 
Perhaps I have already said too much. Iam not to 
talk. JI wanted her to spend six months with me 
at Tunbridge Wells, and she refused.” 

Mr. Beebe poked at a crumb with his knife. 

“But my feelings are of no importance. I know 
too well that I get on Lucy’s nerves. Our tour was 
a failure. She wanted to leave Florence, and when 
we got to Rome she did not want to be in Rome, 
and all the time I felt that I was spending her 
mother’s money—.”’ 

‘‘Let us keep to the future, though,” interrupted 
Mr. Beebe. “I want your advice.” 

“Very well,” said Charlotte, with a choky abrupt- 
ness that was new to him, though familiar to Lucy. 
“IT for one will help her to go to Greece. Will 
you?” 

Mr. Beebe considered. 

“It is absolutely necessary,” she continued, lower- 
ing her veil and whispering through it with a passion, 
an intensity, that surprised him. “I know—l 
know.’ ‘The darkness was coming on, and he felt 
that this odd woman really did know. “She must 
not stop here a moment, and we must keep quiet till 
she goes. I trust that the servants know nothing. 
Afterwards—but I may have said too much already. 
Only, Lucy and I are helpless against Mrs. Honey- 
church alone. If you help we may succeed. Other- 
wise—”’ 

“Otherwise— ?” 

—283-— 


A Room with a View 


“Otherwise,” she repeated as if the word held 
finality. | 

‘Yes, I will help her,”’ said the clergyman, setting 
his jaw firm. ‘‘Come, let us go back now, and settle 
the whole thing up.” 

Miss Bartlett burst into florid gratitude. The 
tavern sign—a beehive trimmed evenly with bees— 
creaked in the wind outside as she thanked him. 
Mr. Beebe did not quite understand the situation; 
but then, he did not desire to understand it, nor to 
jump to the conclusion of “‘another man” that would 
have attracted a grosser mind. He only felt that 
IMiss Bartlett knew of some vague influence from 
which the girl desired to be delivered, and which 
might well be clothed in the fleshly form. Its very 
vagueness spurred him into knight-errantry. His 
belief in celibacy, so reticent, so carefully concealed 
beneath his tolerance and culture, now came to the 
surface and expanded like some delicate flower. 
“They that marry do well, but they that refrain do 
better.’”’ So ran his belief, and he never heard that 
an engagement was broken off but with a slight 
feeling of pleasure. In the case of Lucy, the feeling 
was intensified through dislike of Cecil; and he was 
willing to go further—to place her out of danger 
until she could confirm her resolution of virginity. 
The feeling was very subtle and quite undogmatic, 
and he never imparted it to any other of the char- 
acters in this entanglement. Yet it existed, and it 
alone explains his action subsequently, and his influ- 

—284— 


Lying to Mr. Beebe 





ence on the action of others. ‘The compact that he 
made with Miss Bartlett in the tavern, was to help 
not only Lucy, but religion also. 

They hurried home through a world of black and 
grey. He conversed on indifferent topics: the Em- 
ersons’ need of a housekeeper; servants; Italian 
servants; novels about Italy; novels with a purpose; 
could literature influence life? Windy Corner 
glimmered. In the garden, Mrs. Honeychurch, 
now helped by Freddy, still wrestled with the lives 
of her flowers. 

“It gets too dark,” she said hopelesly. ‘This 
comes of putting off. We might have known the 
weather would break up soon; and now Lucy 
wants to go to Greece. I don’t know what the 
world’s coming to.” 

‘Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, ‘‘go to Greece she 
must. Come up to the house and let’s talk it over. 
Do you, in the first place, mind her breaking with 
Vyse?” 

“Mr. Beebe, I’m thankful—simply thankful.” 

“So am I,” said Freddy. 

‘““Good. Now come up to the house.” 

They conferred in the dining-room for half an 
hour. 

Lucy would never have carried the Greek scheme 
alone. It was expensive and dramatic—both qual- 
ities that her mother loathed. Nor would Char- 
lotte have succeeded. ‘The honours of the day 
rested with Mr. Beebe. By his tact and common 

—285- 


A Room with a View 


sense, and by his influence as a clergyman—for a 
clergyman who was not a fool influenced Mrs. 
Honeychurch greatly—he bent her to their purpose. 

‘I don’t see why Greece is necessary,” she said; 
“but as you do, I suppose it is all right. It must 
be something I can’t understand. Lucy! Let’s tell 
her!) Lueyd? 

‘She is playing the piano,’’ Mr. Beebe said. He 
opened the door, and heard the words of a song: 


“Look not thou on beauty’s charming.” 
‘IT didn’t know that Miss Honeychurch sang, too.” 


“Sit thou still when kings are arming, 
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens —” 


‘Tt’s a song that Cecil gave her. How odd girls 
ate. 

‘What's that?” called Lucy, stopping short. 

‘All right, dear,’ said Mrs. Honeychurch kindly. 
She went into the drawing-room, and Mr. Beebe 
heard her kiss Lucy and say: “I am sorry I was so 
cross about Greece, but it came on the top of the 
dahlias.” 

Rather a hard voice said: “Thank you, mother; 
that doesn’t matter a bit.” 

‘And you are right, too—Greece will be all right; 
you can go if the Miss Alans will have you.” 

“Oh, splendid! Oh, thank you!” 

Mr. Beebe followed. Lucy still sat at the piano 
with her hands over the keys. She was glad, but he 
had expected greater gladness. Her mother bent 

—286- 


Lying to Mr. Beebe 


over her. Freddy, to whom she had been singing, 
reclined on the floor with his head against her, and 
an unlit pipe between his lips. Oddly enough, the 
group was beautiful. Mr. Beebe, who loved the 
art of the past, was reminded of a favourite theme, 
the Santa Conversazione, in which people who care 
for one another are painted chatting together about 
noble things—a theme neither sensual nor sensa- 
tional, and therefore ignored by the art of to-day. 
Why should Lucy want either to marry or to travel 
when she had such friends at home? 


“Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, 
Speak not when the people listens,” 


she continued. 

‘““Here’s Mr. Beebe.” 

‘Mr. Beebe knows my rude ways.”’ 

“Tt’s a beautiful song and a wise one,” said he. 
“Go on.” 

“Tt isn’t very good,” she said listlessly. “I for- 
get why—harmony or something.” 

‘“T suspected it was unscholarly. It’s so beauti- 
take 

‘*The tune’s right enough,” said Freddy, ‘“‘but the 
words are rotten. Why throw up the sponge?” 

“How stupidly you talk!” said his sister. ‘The 
Santa Conversazione was broken up. After all, 
there was no reason that Lucy should talk about 
Greece or thank him for persuading her mother, so 
he said good-bye. 

—287- 


A Room with a View 





Freddy lit his bicycle lamp for him in the porch, 
and with his usual felicity of phrase, said: “This 
has been a day and a half.” 


“Stop thine ear against the singer—” 
‘Wait a minute; she is finishing.” 


“From the red gold keep thy finger; 
Vacant heart and hand and eye 
Easy live and quiet die.” 


“T love weather like this,” said Freddy. 

‘Mr. Beebe passed into it. 

The two main facts were clear. She had be- 
haved splendidly, and he had helped her. He could 
not expect to master the details of so big a change 
in a girl’s life. If here and there he was dissatis- 
fied or puzzled, he must acquiesce; she was choosing 
the better part. 


’ 





“Vacant heart and hand and eye , 


Perhaps the song stated “the better part” rather 
too strongly. He half fancied that the soaring ac- 
companiment—which he did not lose in the shout of 
the gale—really agreed with Freddy, and was gently 
criticizing the words that it adorned: 


“Vacant heart and hand and eye 
Easy live and quiet die.” | 


However, for the fourth time Windy Corner lay 
poised below him—now as a beacon in the roaring 


tides of darkness. 
—288— 


Chapter XIX: Lying to Mr. Emerson 


HE Miss Alans were found in their beloved 
temperance hotel near Bloomsbury—a 
clean, airless establishment much patron- 

ized by provincial England. They always perched 
there before crossing the great seas, and for a week 
or two would fidget gently over clothes, guide-books, 
mackintosh squares, digestive bread, and other Con- 
tinental necessaries. That there are shops abroad, 
even in Athens, never occurred to them, for they re- 
garded travel as a species of warfare, only to be 
undertaken by those who have been fully armed at 
the Haymarket Stores. Miss Honeychurch, they 
trusted, would take care to equip herself duly. 
Quinine could now be obtained in tabloids; paper 
soap was a great help towards freshening up one’s 
face inthe train. Lucy promised, a little depressed. 

“But, of course, you know all about these things, 
and you have Mr. Vyse to help you. A gentleman 
is such a stand-by.” . 

Mrs. Honeychurch, who had come up to town 
with her daughter, began to drum nervously upon 
her card-case. 

“We think it so good of Mr. Vyse to spare you,” 
Miss Catharine continued. “It is not every young 

—289-— 


A Room with a View 


man who would be so unselfish. But perhaps he 
will come out and join you later on.” 

‘Or does his work keep him in London?”’ said 
Miss Teresa, the more acute and less kindly of the 
two sisters. 

““However, we shall see him when he sees you off. 
I do so long to see him.” 

‘No one will see Lucy off,” interposed Mrs. 
Honeychurch. ‘‘She doesn’t like it.” 

“No, I hate seeings-off,” said Lucy. 

‘Really? How funny! I should have thought 
that in this case—”’ 

‘Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, you aren’t going? It 
is such a pleasure to have met you!” 

They escaped, and Lucy said with relief: “That's 
all right. We just got through that time.” 

But her mother was annoyed. “I should be told, 
dear, that I am unsympathetic. But I cannot see 
why you didn’t tell your friends about Cecil and be 
done with it. There all the time we had to 
sit fencing, and almost telling lies, and be seen 
through, too, I dare say, which is most unpleas- 
art 

Lucy had plenty to say in reply. She described 
the Miss Alans’ character: they were such gossips, 
and if one told them, the news would be everywhere 
in no time. 

‘But why shouldn’t it be everywhere in no time?” 

“Because I settled with Cecil not to announce it 
until I left England. I shall tell them then. It’s 

—290— 


Lying to Mr. Emerson 





much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let’s turn in 
here.’ 

“Here” was the British Museum. Mrs. Honey- 
church refused. If they must take shelter, let it 
be ina shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was 
on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had 
already borrowed a mythical dictionary from 
Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses 
and gods. 

“Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let’s go to 
Mudie’s. Ill buy a guide-book.” 

“You know, Lucy, you and Charlotte and Mr. 
Beebe all tell me I’m so stupid, so I suppose I 
am, but I shall never understand this hole-and- 
corner work. You've got rid of Cecil—well and 
good, and I’m thankful he’s gone, though I did 
feel angry for the minute. But why not announce 
it? Why this hushing up and tip-toeing?”’ 

“It’s only for a few days.” 

“But why at all?” 

Lucy was silent. She was drifting away from 
her mother. It was quite easy to say, ‘‘Because 
George Emerson has been bothering me, and if he 
hears I’ve given up Cecil may begin again’’—dquite 
easy, and it had the incidental advantage of being 
true. But she could not say it. She disliked con- 
fidences, for they might lead to self-knowledge and 
to that: king of terrors—Light. Ever since that 
last evening at Florence she had deemed it unwise 
to reveal her soul. 

some Ok 


A Room with a View 


Mrs. Honeychurch, too, was silent. She was 
thinking, ‘‘My daughter won’t answer me; she 
would rather be with those inquisitive old maids 
than with Freddy and me. Any rag, tag, and bob- 
tail apparently does if she can leave her home.” 
And as in her case thoughts never remained un- 
spoken long, she burst out with: ‘You're tired of 
Windy Corner.” 

This was perfectly true. Lucy had hoped to 
return to Windy Corner when she escaped from 
Cecil, but she discovered that her home existed 
no longer. It might exist for Freddy, who still 
lived and thought straight, but not for one who 
had deliberately warped the brain. She did not 
acknowledge that her brain was warped, for the 
brain itself must assist in that acknowledgment, 
and she was disordering the very instruments of 
life. She only felt, “I do not love George; I 
broke off my engagement because I did not love 
George; I must go to Greece because I do not love 
George; it is more important that I should look up 
gods in the dictionary than that I should help my 
mother; every one else is behaving very badly.” 
She only felt irritable and petulant, and anxious 
to do what she was not expected to do, and in this 
spirit she proceeded with the conversation. 

‘Oh, mother, what rubbish you talk! Of course 
I’m not tired of Windy Corner.” 

‘Then why not say so at once, instead of con- 
sidering half an hour?” 

—292— 


ee ™ _—_s ave 


Lying to Mr. Emerson 


She laughed faintly, “Half a minute would be 
nearer.” 

‘Perhaps you would like to stay away from your 
home altogether ?” 

“Hush, mother! People ‘will hear you”; for 
they had entered Mudie’s. She bought Baedeker, 
and then continued: ‘Of course I want to live at 
home; but as we are talking about it, I may as 
well say that I shall want to be away in the future 
more than I have been. You see, I come into my 
money next year.”’ 

Tears came into her mother’s eyes. 

Driven by nameless bewilderment, by what is 
in older people termed ‘“‘eccentricity,’’ Lucy deter- 
mined to make this point clear. “I’ve seen the 
world so little—I felt so out of things in Italy. I 
have seen so little of life; one ought to come up 
to London more—not a cheap ticket like to-day, 
but to stop. I might even share a flat for a little 
with some other girl.” 

‘‘And mess with typewriters and latch-keys,” ex- 
ploded Mrs. Honeychurch. ‘And agitate and 
scream, and be carried off kicking by the police. 
And call it a Mission—when no one wants you! 
And call it Duty—when it means that you can’t 
stand your own home! And call it Work—when 
thousands of men are starving with the compe- 
tition as it is! And then to prepare yourself, find 
two doddering old ladies, and go abroad with 
them.” 


A Room with a View 





b] 


‘I want more independence,” said Lucy lamely; 
she knew that she wanted something, and inde- 
pendence is a useful cry; we can always say that 
we have not got it. She tried to remember her 
emotions in Florence: those had been sincere and 
passionate, and had suggested beauty rather than 
short skirts and latch-keys. But independence was 
certainly her cue. 

‘Very well. ‘Take your independence and be 
gone. Rush up and down and round the world, 
and come back as thin as a lath with the bad 
food. Despise the house that your father built 
and the garden that he planted, and our dear view 
—and then share a flat with another girl.” 

Lucy screwed up her mouth and said: “Perhaps 
I spoke hastily.” 

“Oh, goodness!” her mother flashed. “How 
you do remind me of Charlotte Bartlett!” 

“Charlotte?” flashed Lucy in her turn, pierced 
at last by a vivid pain. 

‘‘More every moment.” 

“T don’t know what you mean, mother; Char- 
lotte and I are not the very least alike.” 

“Well, I see the likeness. The same eternal 
worrying, the same taking back of words. You 
and Charlotte trying to divide two apples among 
three people last night might be sisters.” 

‘What rubbish! And if you dislike Charlotte 
so, it’s rather a pity you asked her to stop. I 
warned you about her; I begged you, implored 

Be 


Lying to Mr. Emerson 





you not to, but of course it was not listened to.” 

‘There you go.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Charlotte again, my dear; that’s all; her very 
words.” 

Lucy clenched her teeth. “My point is that you 
oughtn’t to have asked Charlotte to stop. I wish 
you would keep to the point.” And the conver- 
sation died off into a wrangle. 

She and her mother shopped in silence, spoke 
little in the train, little again in the carriage, which 
met them at Dorking Station. It had poured all 
day and as they ascended through the deep Surrey 
lanes showers of water fell from the over-hanging 
beech-trees and rattled on the hood. Lucy com- 
plained that the hood was stuffy. Leaning for- 
ward, she looked out into the steaming dusk, and 
watched the carriage-lamp pass like a search-light 
over mud and leaves, and reveal nothing beautiful. 
‘The crush when Charlotte gets in will be abomin- 
able,’ she remarked. For. they were to pick up 
Miss Bartlett at Summer Street, where she had been 
dropped as the carriage went down, to pay a call 
on Mr. Beebe’s old mother. ‘We shall have to 
sit three a side, because the trees drop, and yet it 
isn’t raining. Oh, for a little air!’’ ‘Then she 
listened to the horse’s hoofs—‘He has not told— 
he has not told.’ ‘That melody was blurred by the 
soft road. ‘‘Can’t we have the hood down?”’ she 
demanded, and her mother, with sudden tenderness, 


A Room with a View 





said: ‘Very well, old lady, stop the horse.” And 
the horse was stopped, and Lucy and Powell wres- 
tled with the hood, and squirted water down Mrs. 
Honeychurch’s neck. But now that the hood was 
down, she did see something that she would have 
missed—there were no lights in the windows of 
Cissie Villa, and round the garden gate she fan- 
- cied she saw a padlock. 

‘Is that house to let again, Powell?” she called. 

‘Yes, miss,” he replied. 

‘““Have they gone?” 

“It is too far out of town for the young gentle- 
man, and his father’s rheumatism has come on, 
so he can’t stop on alone, so they are trying to 
let furnished,’ was the answer. 

“They have gone, then?” 

‘Yes, miss, they have gone.” 

Lucy sank back. The carriage stopped at the 
Rectory. She got out to call for Miss Bartlett. 
So the Emersons had gone, and all this bother 
about Greece had been unnecessary. Waste! 
That word seemed to sum up the whole of life. 
Wasted plans, wasted money, wasted love, and she 
had wounded her mother. Was it possible that 
she had muddled things away? Quite’ possible. 
Other people had. When the maid opened the 
door, she was unable to speak, and stared stupidly 
into the hall. 

Miss Bartlett at once came forward, and after a 
long preamble asked a great favour: might she go 


—29 6— 


Lying to Mr. Emerson 


to church? Mr. Beebe and his mother had already 
gone, but she had refused to start until she obtained 
her hostess’s full sanction, for it would mean keep- 
ing the horse waiting a good ten minutes more. 

“Certainly,” said the hostess wearily. ‘I for- 
got it was Friday. Let’s all go. Powell can go 
round to the stables.” 

“Lucy dearest—’’ 

‘No church for me, thank you.” 

A sigh, and they departed. The church was 
invisible, but up in the darkness to the left there 
was a hint of colour. ‘This was a stained window, 
through which some feeble light was shining, and 
when the door opened Lucy heard Mr. Beebe’s 
voice running through the litany to a minute con- 
gregation. Even their church, built upon the slope 
of the hill so artfully, with its beautiful raised 
transept and its spire of silvery shingle—even their 
church had lost its charm; and the thing one never 
talked about—religion—was fading like all the 
other things. 

She followed the maid into the Rectory. 

Would she object to sitting in Mr. Beebe’s study? 
There was only that one fire. 

She would not object. 

Some one was there already, for Lucy heard the 
words: “A lady to wait, sir.” 

Old Mr. Emerson was sitting by the fire, with his 
foot upon a gout-stool. 

“Oh, Miss Honeychurch, that you should come!” 


—297- 





A Room with a View 





he quavered; and Lucy saw an alteration in him 
since last Sunday. 

Not a word would come to her lips. George 
she had faced, and could have faced again, but 
she had forgotten how to treat his father. 

‘(Miss Honeychurch, dear, we are so sorry! 
George is so sorry! He thought he had a right 
to try. I cannot blame my boy, and yet I wish 
he had told me first. He ought not to have tried. 
I knew nothing about it at all.” 

If only she could remember how to be- 
have! 

He held up his hand. “But you must not scold 
him.” 

Lucy turned her back, and began to look at Mr. 
Beebe’s books. 

“IT taught him,” he quavered, “‘to trust in love. 
I said: “When love comes, that is reality.’ I said: 
‘Passion does not blind. No. Passion is sanity, 
and the woman you love, she is the only person you 
will ever really understand.’”’ He sighed: “True, 
everlastingly true, though my day is over, and 
though there is the result. Poor boy! He is so 
sorry! He said he knew it was madness when you 
brought your cousin in; that whatever you felt you 
did not mean. Yet’—his voice gathered strength; 
he spoke out to make certain—“ Miss Honeychurch, 
do you remember Italy?” 

Lucy selected a book—a volume of Old Testa- 
ment commentaries. Holding it up to her eyes, 

—298— 


Lying to Mr. Emerson 





she said: “I have no wish to discuss Italy or any 
subject connected with your son.” 

“But you do remember it?” 

“He has misbehaved himself from the first.” 

“T only was told that he loved you last Sunday. 
I never could judge behaviour. I—I—suppose he 
has.” 

Feeling a little steadier, she put the book back 
and turned round to him. His face was drooping 
and swollen, but his eyes, though they were sunken 
deep, gleamed with a child’s courage. 

‘Why, he has behaved abominably,” she said. 
“T am glad he is sorry. Do you know what he 
did?” 

“Not ‘abominably,’’’ was the gentle correction. 
“He only tried when he should not have tried. 
You have all you want, Miss Honeychurch: you 
are going to marry the man you love. Do not go 
out of George’s life saying he is abominable.” 

‘No, of course,’ said Lucy, ashamed {at the 
reference to Cecil. ‘“‘ ‘Abominable’ is much too 
strong. I am sorry I used it about your son. I 
think I will go to church, after all. My mother 
and my cousin have gone. I shall not be so very 
late—” 

“Especially as he has gone under,” he said quietly. 

“What was that?” 

“Gone under naturally.” He beat his palms 
together in silence; his head fell on his chest. 

“T don’t understand.” 


799 


A Room with a View 


‘As his mother did.” 

“But, Mr. Emerson—Mr. Emerson—what are 
you talking about?” 

‘‘When I wouldn’t have George baptized,” said 
he. 

Lucy was frightened. 

‘‘And she agreed that baptism was nothing, but 
he caught that fever when he was twelve and she 
turned round. She thought it a judgment.” He 
shuddered. ‘Oh, horrible, when we had given up 
that sort of thing and broken away from her par- 
ents. Oh, horrible—worst of all—worse than 
death, when you have made a little clearing in the 
wilderness, planted your little garden, let in your 
sunlight, and then the weeds creep in again! A 
judgment! And our boy had typhoid because no 
clergyman had dropped water on him in church! 
Is it possible, Miss Honeychurch? Shall we slip 
back into the darkness for ever?” 

“T don’t know,” gasped Lucy. “I don’t under- 
stand this sort of thing. I was not meant to under- 
stand it.” 

“But Mr. Eager—he came when I was out, and 
acted according to his principles. I don’t blame 
him or any one . . . but by the time George was 
well she was ill. He made her think about sin, and 
she went under thinking about it.”’ 

It was thus that Mr. Emerson had murdered 
his wife in the sight of God. 

—300-— 


Lying to Mr. Emerson 





“Oh, how terrible!” said Lucy, forgetting her 
own affairs at last. 

“He was not baptized,” said the old man. “I 
did hold firm.”’ And he looked with unwavering 
eyes at the rows of books, as if—at what cost !— 
he had won a victory over them. “My boy shall 
go back to the earth untouched.” 

She asked whether young Mr. Emerson was ill. 

“Oh—last Sunday.” He started into the pres- 
ent. ‘George last Sunday—no, not ill: just gone 
under. He is never ill. But he is his mother’s 
son. Her eyes were his, and she had that fore- 
head that I think so beautiful, and he will not think 
it worth while to live. It was always touch and go. 
He will live; but he will not think it worth while to 
live. He will never think anything worth while. 
You remember that church at Florence?” 

Lucy did remember, and how she had suggested 
that George should collect postage stamps. 

“After you left Florence—horrible. Then we 
took the house here, and he goes bathing with your 
brother, and became better. You saw him bath- 
ing?” 

“I am so sorry, but it is no good discussing this 
affair. I am deeply sorry about it.” 

“Then there came something about a novel. I 
_ didn’t follow it at all; I had to hear so much, and 
he minded telling me; he finds me too old. Ah, 
well, one must have failures. George comes down 


A Room with a View 





to-morrow, and takes me up to his London rooms. 
He can’t bear to be about here, and I must be 
where he is.” 

‘Mr. Emerson,” cried the girl, “don’t leave— 
at least, not on my account. I am going to Greece. 
Don’t leave your comfortable house.” 

It was the first time her voice had been kind and 
he smiled. ‘‘How good every one is! And look 
at Mr. Beebe housing me—came over this morning 
and heard I was going! Here I am so comfortable 
with a fire.”’ 

“Yes, but you won’t go back to London. It’s 
absurd.”’ 

“IT must be with George; I must make him care 
to live, and down here he can’t. He says the 
thought of seeing you and of hearing about you— 
I am not justifying him: I am only saying what has 
happened.” 

“Oh, Mr. Emerson’’—she took hold of his hand 
— “you mustn’t. I’ve been bother enough to the 
world by now. I can’t have you moving out of 
your house when you like it, and perhaps losing 
money through it—all on my account. You must 
stop! I am just going to Greece.” 

‘All the way to Greece?” 

Her manner altered. 

To Greece?” 

‘So you must stop. You won't talk about this 
business, I know. I can trust you both.” 

‘Certainly you can. We either have you in our 

—302— 


Lying to Mr. Emerson 





lives, or leave you to the life that you have chosen.” 

‘T shouldn’t want—”’ 

“I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? 
No, it was wrong of George to try. We have 
pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we de- 
serve sorrow.” 

She looked at the books again—black, brown, and 
that acrid theological blue. They surrounded the 
visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, 
they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy— 
who could not see that Mr. Emerson was pro- 
foundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe 
chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion—it 
seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into 
such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be de- 
pendent on the bounty of a clergyman. 

More certain than ever that she was tired, he 
offered her his chair. 

“No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the car- 
riage.” 

‘Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired.” 

“Not a bit,’”’ said Lucy, with trembling lips. 

‘But you are, and there’s a look of George about 
you. And what were you saying about going 
abroad ?”’ 

She was silent. 

‘“Greece’’—and she saw that he was thinking the 
word over—‘Greece; but you were to be married 
this year, I thought.”’ 

“Not till January, it wasn’t,” said Lucy, clasping 


A Room with a View 


her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it 
came to the point? 

‘I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I 
hope—it isn’t because George spoke that you are 
both going?” 

SN OY 

“I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. 
Vyse.”’ 

Thank you.” 

At that moment Mr. Beebe came back ‘from 
church. His cassock was covered with rain. 
‘“That’s all right,’ he said kindly. ‘I counted on 
you two keeping each other company. It’s pouring 
again. ‘The entire congregation, which consists of 
your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands 
waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. 
‘Did Powell go round ?” 

“T think so; I'll see.”’ 

““No—of course, I'll see. How are the Miss 
Alans?” 

“Very well, thank you.” 

‘Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Gidea th 

‘“T—I did.” 

‘Don’t you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Em- 
erson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now, 
Miss Honeychurch, go back—keep warm. I think 
three is such a courageous number to go travelling.” 
And he hurried off to the stables. 

‘He is not going,” she said hoarsely. “IT made 
a slip. Mr. Vyse ers stop behind in England.” 


Lying to Mr. Emerson 


Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. 
To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; 
but he seemed so near the end of things, so dig- 
nified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave 
One account, and the books that surrounded him 
another, so mild to the rough paths that he had 
traversed, that the true chivalry—not the worn-out 
chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the 
young may show to all the old—awoke in her, and, 
at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not 
her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seri- 
ously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lift- 
ing his eyes, said: “You are leaving him? You are 
leaving the man you love?” 

“I—I had to.” 

“Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?” 

Terror came over her, and she lied again. She 
made the long, convincing speech that she had made 
to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world 
when she announced that her engagement was no 
more. He heard her in silence, and then said: 
‘‘My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to 
me’’—dreamily; she was not alarmed—“that you 
are in a muddle.” 

She shook her head. 

‘“Take an old man’s word; there’s nothing worse 
than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face 
Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dread- 
ful. It is on my muddles that I look back with 
horror—on the things that I might have avoided. 


A Room with a View 





We can help one another but little. I used to think 
I could teach young people the whole of life, but I 
know better now, and all my teaching of George has 
come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you 
remember in that church, when you pretended to be 
annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember 
before, when you refused the room with the view? 
Those were muddles—little, but ominous—and I 
am fearing that you are in one now.” She was 
silent. ‘“‘Don’t trust me, Miss Honeychurch. 
Though life is very glorious, it is difficult.” She 
was still silent. ‘“‘ ‘Life’ wrote a friend of mine, 
‘is a public performance on the violin, in which you 
must learn the instrument as you go along.’ I think 
he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his 
functions as he goes along—especially the function 
of Love.” Then he burst out excitedly; ‘“That’s 
it; that’s what I mean. You love George!’ And 
after his long preamble, the three words burst 
against Lucy like waves from the open sea. 

‘But you do,” he went on, not waiting for contra- 

diction. “You love the boy body and soul, plainly, 
directly, as he loves you, and no other word ex- 
presses it. You won’t marry the other man for his 
sake.” 
_ “How dare you!” gasped Lucy, with the roaring 
of waters in her ears. ‘‘Oh, how like a man!—I 
mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking 
about a man.”’ 

‘But you are.” 

—306-— 


Lying to Mr. Emerson 





She summoned physical disgust. 

“You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It’s 
the only hope at times. I can reach you no other 
way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. 
You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time 
for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the 
poetry, and the things that really matter, and for 
which you marry. I know that, with George, you 
will find them, and that you love him. Then be his 
wife. He is already part of you. Though you fly 
to Greece, and never see him again, or forget his 
very name, George will work in your thoughts till 
you die. It isn’t possible to love and to part. You 
will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ig- 
nore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of 
you. I know by experience that the'poets are right: 
love is eternal.” 

Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her 
anger passed away soon, her tears remained. 

‘T only wish poets would say this, too: love is of 
the body; not the body, but of the body. Ah! the 
misery that would be saved if we confessed that! 
Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul! 
Your soul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, be- 
cause of all the cant with which superstition has 
wrapped it round. But we have souls. I cannot 
say how they came nor whither they go, but we 
have them, and I see you ruining yours. I cannot 
bear it. It is again the darkness creeping in; it is — 
hell,” Then he checked himself. ‘‘What nonsense 

—307— 


A Room with a View 





I have talked—how abstract and remote! And I 
have made you cry! Dear girl, forgive my prosi- 
ness; marry my boy. When I think what life is, 


and how seldom love is answered by love— Marry 
him; it is one of the moments for which the world 
was made.”’ 


She could not understand him; the words were 
indeed remote. Yet as he spoke the darkness was 
withdrawn, veil after veil, and she saw to the bot- 
tom of her soul. 

‘Then, Lucy—” 

“You've frightened me,” she moaned. “Cecil 
—Mr. Beebe—the ticket’s bought—everything.” 
She fell sobbing into the chair. ‘I’m caught in the 
tangle. I must suffer and grow old away from him. 
I cannot break the whole of life for his sake. They 
trusted me.” 

A carriage drew up at the front-door. 

“Give George my love—once only. Tell him 
‘muddle.’’’ Then she arranged her veil, while Bee 
tears poured over her cheeks inside. 

‘“Lucy—” 

‘‘No—they are in the hall—-oh; please not, Mr. 
Emerson—they trust me—”’ 

‘But why should they, when you have devewed 
them ?” 

Mr. Beebe opened the door, saying: ‘Here’s 
my mother.” 

‘“You’re not worthy of their trust.” 

‘“‘What’s that?” said Mr. Beebe sharply. 

—308— 


Lying to Mr. Emerson 


“I was saying, why should you trust her when 
she deceived you?” 

“One minute, mother.’ He came in and shut 
the door. 

‘T don’t follow you, Mr. Emerson. To whom do 
yourefer? Trust whom?” 

“I mean she has pretended to you that she 
did not love George. They have loved one another 
all along.” 

Mr. Beebe looked at the sobbing girl. He was 
very quiet, and his white face, with its ruddy whis- 
kers, seemed suddenly inhuman. A long black col- 
umn, he stood and awaited her reply. 

‘“T shall never marry him,” quavered Lucy. 

A look of contempt came over him, and he said, 
“Why not?” 

“Mr. Beebe—I have misled you—I have misled 
myself—” 

“Oh, rubbish, Miss Honeychurch!” 

“Tt is not rubbish!”’ said the old man _ hotly. 
“It’s the part of people that you don’t under- 
stand.” 

Mr. Beebe laid his hand on the old man’s shoul- 
der pleasantly. 

“Lucy! Lucy!” called voices from the carriage. 

“Mr. Beebe, could you help me?” 

He looked amazed at the request, and said in a 
low, stern voice: “I am more grieved than I can 
possibly express. It is lamentable, lamentable—in- 
credible.” 


A Room with a View 





‘“What’s wrong with the boy ?” fired up the other 
again. 

‘Nothing, Mr. Emerson, except that he no longer 
interests me. Marry George, Miss Honeychurch. 
He will do admirably.” 

He walked out and left them. They heard him 
guiding his mother up-stairs. 

“Lucy!” the voices called. 

She turned to Mr. Emerson in despair. But his 
face revived her. It was the face of a saint who 
understood. 

‘‘Now it is all dark. Now Beauty and Passion 
seem never to have existed. I know. But re- 
member the mountains over Florence and the view. 
Ah, dear, if I were George, and gave you one kiss, 
it would make you brave. You have to go cold 
into a battle that needs warmth, out into the muddle 
that you have made yourself; and your mother and 
all your friends will despise you, oh, my darling, 
and rightly, if it is ever right to despise. George 
still dark, all the tussle and the misery without a 
word from him. Am I justified?” Into his own 
eyes tears came. ‘Yes, for we fight for more than 
Love or Pleasure; there is Truth. Truth counts, 
Truth does count.” 

“You kiss me,” said the girl. “You kiss me. 
I will try.” 

He gave her a sense of deities reconciled, a feel- 
ing that, in gaining the man she loved, she would 
gain something for the whole world. Throughout 

—310- 


Lying to Mr. Emerson 





the squalor of her homeward drive—she spoke at 
once—his salutation remained. He had robbed the 
body of its taint, the world’s taunts of their sting; 
he had shown her the holiness of direct desire. She 
“never exactly understood,” she would say in after 
years, “how he managed to strengthen her. It was 
as if he had made her see the whole of everything at 
once.”’ 


Chapter XX: The End of the Middle 
Ages 


HE Miss Alans did go to Greece, but they 
went by themselves. They alone of this 
little company will double Malea and 
plough the waters of the Saronic gulf. They alone 
will visit Athens and Delphi, and either shrine of in- 
tellectual song—that upon the Acropolis, encircled 
by blue seas; that under Parnassus, where the eagles 
build and the bronze charioteer drives undismayed 
towards infinity. Trembling, anxious, cumbered 
with much digestive bread, they did proceed to Con- 
stantinople, they did go round the world. ‘The rest 
of us must be contented with a fair, but a less ardu- 
ous, goal. Italiam petimus: we return to the Pen- 
sion Bertolini. 
George said it was his old room. 
‘No, it isn’t,” said Lucy; ‘‘because it is the room 
I had, and I had your father’s room. I forget why; 
Charlotte made me, for some reason.” 
He knelt on the tiled floor, and laid his face in, 
her lap. 
“George, you baby, get up.” 
‘“Why shouldn’t I be a baby?” murmured George. 
Unable to answer this question, she put down his 
sock, which she was trying to mend, and gazed out 


The End of the Middle Ages 


through the window. It was evening and again the 
spring. 

“Oh, bother Charlotte,” she said thoughtfully. 
‘What can such people be made of ?” 

‘Same stuff as parsons are made of.” 

‘Nonsense !”” 

“Quite right. It is nonsense.” 

‘Now you get up off the cold floor, or you'll be 
starting rheumatism next, and you stop laughing 
and being so silly.” 

‘Why shouldn’t I laugh?” he asked, pinning her 
with his elbows, and advancing his face to hers. 
‘What's there tocry at? Kissmehere.’ He indi- 
cated the spot where a kiss would be welcome. 

He was a boy after all. When it came to the 
point, it was she who remembered the past, she into 
whose soul the iron had entered, she who knew 
whose room this had been last year. It endeared 
him to her strangely that he should be sometimes 
wrong. 

‘Any letters?” he asked. 

“Just a line from Freddy.” 

‘“‘Now kiss me here; then here.”’ 

Then, threatened again with rheumatism, he 
strolled to the window, opened it (as the English 
will), and leant out. There was the parapet, there 
the river, there to the left the beginnings of the 
hills. The cab-driver, who at once saluted him 
with the hiss of a serpent, might be that very Phae- 
thon who had set this happiness in motion twelve 


—31 aS 





A Room with a View 


months ago. A passion of gratitude—all feelings 
grow to passions in the South—came over the hus- 
band, and he blessed the people and the things who 
had taken so much trouble about a young fool He 
had helped himself, it is true, but how stupidly! 
All the fighting that mattered had been done by 
others—by Italy, by his father, by his wife. 

‘Lucy, you come and look at the cypresses; and 
the church, whatever its name is, still shows.” 

‘San Miniato. [ll just finish your sock.” 

‘‘Signorino, domani faremo uno giro,” called the 
cabman, with engaging certainty. 

George told him that he was mistaken; they had 
no money to throw away on driving. 

And the people who had not meant to help—the 
Miss Lavishes, the Cecils, the Miss Bartletts! 
Ever prone to magnify Fate, George counted up 
the forces that had swept him into this content- 
ment. 

‘Anything good in Freddy’s letter ?” 

‘Not yet.” 

His own content was absolute, but hers held bit- 
terness: the Honeychurches had not forgiven them; 
they were disgusted at her past hypocrisy; she had 
alienated Windy Corner, perhaps for ever. 

“What does he say?” 

‘Silly boy! He thinks he’s being dignified. He 
knew we should go off in the spring—he has known 
it for six months—that if mother wouldn’t give her 
consent we should take the thing into our own hands, 


The End of the Middle Ages 


They had fair warning, and now he calls it an elope- 
ment. Ridiculous boy—” 

“Signorino, domani faremo unogiro—” 

“But it will all come right in the end. He has to 
build us both up from the beginning again. I wish, 
though, that Cecil had not turned so cynical about 
women. He has, for the second time, quite altered. 
Why will men have theories about women? I 
haven’t any about men. I wish, too, that Mr. 
Beebe—’”’ 

“You may well wish that.” 

“Fe will never forgive us—I mean, he will never 
be interested in us again. I wish that he did not 
influence them so much at Windy Corner. I wish 
he hadn’t— _ But if we act the truth, the people who 
really love us are sure to come back to us in the long- 
run.” 

“Perhaps.” Then he said more gently: ‘Well, 
I acted the truth—the only thing I did do—and you 
came back to me. So possibly you know.” He 
turned back into the room. “Nonsense with that 
sock.” He carried her to the window, so that she, 
too, saw all the view. ‘They sank upon their knees, 
invisible from the road, they hoped, and began to 
whisper one another’s names. Ah! it was worth 
while; it was the great joy that they had expected, 
and countless little joys of which they had never 
dreamt. They were silent. 

‘“Signorino, domani faremo—”’ 

“Oh, bother that man!” 


a iPS, 





A Room with a View 





But Lucy remembered the vendor of photographs 
and said, ‘‘No, don’t be rude to him.” Then with 
a catching of her breath, she murmured: “Mr. 
Eager and Charlotte, dreadful frozen Charlotte! 
How cruel she would be to a man like that!” 

‘Look at the lights going over the bridge.” 

‘But this room reminds me of Charlotte. How 
horrible to grow old in Charlotte’s way! To think 
that evening at the rectory that she shouldn’t have 
heard your father was in the house. © For she would 
have stopped me going in, and he was the only per- 
son alive who could have made me see sense. You 
couldn’t have made me. When I am very happy” 
—she kissed him—"I remember on how little it all 
hangs. If Charlotte had only known, she would 
have stopped me going in, and I should have gone 
to silly Greece, and become different for ever.” 

“But she did know,” said George; “‘she did see 
my father, surely. He said so.” 

“‘Oh, no, she didn’t see him. She was upstairs 
with old Mrs. Beebe, don’t you remember, and then 
went straight to the church. ‘She said so.” 

George was obstinate again. “My father,” said 
he, ‘‘saw her, and I prefer his word. He was doz- 
ing by the study fire, and he opened his eyes, and 
there was Miss Bartlett. A few minutes before 
you came in. She was turning to go as he woke up. 
He didn’t speak to her.” 

Then they spoke of other things—the desultory 
talk of those who have been fighting to reach one 

—316— 


The End of the Middle Ages 


another, and whose reward is to rest quietly in each 
other’s arms. It was long ere they returned to 
Miss Bartlett, but when they did her behaviour 
seemed more interesting. George, who disliked any 
darkness, said: ‘‘It’s clear that she knew. Then, 
why did she risk the meeting? She knew he was 
there, and yet she went to church.”’ 

They tried to piece the thing together. 

As they talked, an incredible solution came into 
Lucy’s mind. She rejected it, and said: “How 
like ‘Charlotte to undo her work by a feeble muddle 
at the last moment.’ But something in the dying 
evening, in the roar of the river, in their very em- 
brace warned them that her words fell short of life, 
and George whispered: ‘‘Or did she mean it?” 

“Mean what?” 

‘‘Signorino, domani faremo uno giro—”’ 

Lucy bent forward and said with gentleness: 
‘“‘Lascia, prego, lascia. Siamo sposati.” 

“Scusi tanto, signora,” he replied in tones as 
gentle and whipped up his horse. 

“Buona sera—e grazie.” 

‘““Niente.”’ 

The cabman drove away singing. 

‘Mean what, George?’ 

He whispered: “Is it this? Is this possible? 
I'll put a marvel to you. That your cousin has al- 
ways hoped. ‘That from the very first moment we 
met, she hoped, far down in her mind, that we should 
be like this—of course, very far down. ‘That she 





A Room with a View 





fought us on the surface, and yet she hoped. I can’t 
explain her any other way. Can you? Look how 
she kept me alive in you all the summer; how she 
gave you no peace; how month after month she be- 
came more eccentric and unreliable. The sight of 
us haunted her—or she couldn’t have described us 
as she did to her friend. ‘There are details—it 
burnt. JI read the book afterwards. She is not 
frozen, Lucy, she is not withered up all through. 
She tore us apart twice, but in the rectory that even- 
ing she was given one more chance to make us 
happy. We can never make friends with her or 
thank her. But I do believe that, far down in her 
heart, far below all speech and behaviour, she 
is glad.” 

“Tt is impossible,’ murmured Lucy, and then, re- 
membering the experiences of her own heart, she 
said: ‘‘No—it is just possible.”’ 

Youth enwrapped them; the song of Phaethon an- 
nounced passion requited, love attained. But they 
were conscious of a love more mysterious than this. 
The song died away; they heard the river, bearing 
down the snows of winter into the Mediterranean. 


THE END 


—318- 








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